


Love Me Right

by WeirdHybrid



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Age Difference, Alcohol, Barebacking, Blood Kink, Breathplay, Daddy Kink, Implied Violence, Light BDSM, M/M, Rimming
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-29
Updated: 2016-04-22
Packaged: 2018-04-01 21:09:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 22
Words: 78,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4034671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeirdHybrid/pseuds/WeirdHybrid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which twenty-eight year old Yixing meets young, enigmatic Jongdae in a bar and finds himself in quite a pickle. They are brought together by violence, but they stay together because they are exactly what each other needs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

         It had been one of those weeks that wrung Yixing dry, the only solution to which was re-saturating with a few stiff drinks. He’d had to play bad cop to several overstressed authors, reiterating the looming deadlines for their drafts. These sorts of things seemed to come in waves in the publishing business; either everything was smooth sailing, or he had to captain twelve ships at once – in the rain. So, once the storm had passed on Friday afternoon, Yixing made the customary SOS call to his best friend, they texted the details, and made plans to meet up that night to revive his defeated spirits.

         This hectic bar Yixing found himself in now was not really his style; he preferred a more easygoing atmosphere to the crowded, pulsing swarm around him. But since he’d chosen the destination last week (opting for his beloved neighborhood taproom, as usual), he bowed to Chanyeol’s choice tonight. The two of them had been compromising like this as long as they’d been friends; it started in high school, when Chanyeol had balked at being asked to dissect a fish, and Yixing had come to his rescue, wielding a tiny scalpel and a friendly grin, in exchange for Chanyeol’s help running lines before auditioning for the school musical. After auditioning together and bonding as members of the chorus during the show, they became inseparable. Both relied on the other ever since.

         One of the benefits Yixing reaped from his friendship with Chanyeol was mooching off his endless charisma and charm. Even in high school, Chanyeol was constantly in the middle of a crowd, and his bright spirit elevated Yixing’s naturally introverted one. However, when booze entered the picture, Yixing sometimes had a hard time keeping up. Like tonight, for example.

         Yixing, from his safe vantage point at a seat at the bar, turned his head to survey his wayward friend in his native environment, surrounded by sloppy strangers, doubled over in laughter, one arm slung around the shoulders of a rather desperately-dressed girl. Chanyeol looked up and beckoned him over with his sloshing beer bottle, his ruddy cheeks framing his goofy, easy smile. Yixing could make his way through the loud, boisterous crowd and stand with Chanyeol, where he would be simultaneously enhanced and over-shadowed by his friend, taken in by the affected carefree attitude of a busy Friday night bar. He could rally, but after the week he’d had, he didn’t have the energy to force niceties with strangers. Yixing smiled and shook his head amiably, Chanyeol responding with a knowing shrug.

         Yixing turned back to the bar and rotated the drink in his hand, the warm, watered down whiskey dregs slipping along the faceted glass. It was his second that evening, and the fuzzy haze of it was just barely floating at the periphery of Yixing’s eyes. Yixing rarely got truly drunk, another wordless agreement between himself and Chanyeol. Yixing had no problem forgoing his own inebriated exploits to make sure Chanyeol and their other friends made it back to their beds safely. But he felt like he’d earned a little self-indulgence tonight, specifically in the form of Suntory.

         Leaning forward, arms propped on the edge of the bar, he pondered how he wanted the rest of the night to go – he could down another drink, allow the booze to smooth him out, and join Chanyeol in his shenanigans, or he could pay his tab, make his way home, and pick up where he left off in the third season of the Office. Engage, or retreat. For the moment, he felt like he was floating in between two worlds; he was surrounded by a swaying mass of shouting, sweating, living people, but he felt a cold and comforting isolation all the same.

         He let his mind wander as he sat at the bar. A familiar disappointment tainted the spicy whiskey flavor in his mouth. For whatever reason, Chanyeol connected with people inherently, as if every person in existence was a friend he just hadn’t met yet. Yixing wished he were built that way, but instead he’d spent most of his life shifting between a deep, aching desire to share himself fully with someone else and the urge to stay insular, to protect himself from the demands and manipulations of others. But Yixing wasn’t shy. He could charm people when the need arose; he’d learned those skills that Chanyeol was inexplicably born with, not in small part from observing Chanyeol himself. But Yixing longed to feel truly at ease with another person and to explore the parts of himself that he felt the need to keep locked away, even from his best friend. He took care of Chanyeol, he supported him and loved him, but Yixing longed to protect someone, to invest in them and provide for them. When he was honest with himself, he knew he needed someone to _nurture,_ and waiting for that person was lonely work.

         He let the empty glass rest on the sticky wooden bar surface, and he reached for his phone to check the time; perhaps the glowing screen would determine his next move. As he did so, his elbow jutted out into someone else, accidentally nudging them. Yixing retracted his arm hastily and looked up into the face of a young man who had wedged himself between Yixing’s bar stool and the one beside to order a drink. Yixing automatically mouthed a meager apology but found himself gaping at the unexpected smile that crept across the man’s face just inches from Yixing’s own.

         He was quite striking, with his chiseled jaw and brow highlighted by flawless skin… and quite young. Yixing thought fleetingly that he didn’t really look old enough to drink legally as the young man reached forward to the bar, where four slim shot glasses sat waiting. He paused with his arm extended and looked at Yixing again. His sharp, dark eyes surveyed Yixing, from his neatly cut but unstyled black hair to his rolled up work day buttoned shirt cuffs that cut nicely at Yixing’s taut forearms. One corner of his lips arched in approval and he slid one shot in front of Yixing, taking another for himself. He smiled a little wider now, his dazzling white teeth impressive even in this weak barroom light. He raised his own shot a little with deft, slender fingers, indicating the one in front of Yixing, and raised his eyebrows.

         Yixing would think back at this moment later and wonder at his own response to this unexpected invitation. He couldn’t explain why, but Yixing didn’t even consider not taking the drink, though it was fairly out of character for him. Looking into the winning expression of this youthful, vibrant stranger, taking in his coifed golden hair, the deep, flirtatious corners of his curved lips, the playful sheen in his gaze, Yixing found himself instantly drawn to him. Without hesitation, Yixing took his shot and raised it, mirroring the young man’s motion. The glasses inaudibly clinked together in the din, and two sets of eyes linked above them for a few prolonged seconds. The young man’s deep, winsome gaze caught Yixing off guard, and he was glad for the darkness around them that hid his surely reddening cheeks. Yixing lifted the clear, pungent liquid to his lips, pausing to watch the boyish stranger throw his head back exuberantly, his long neck extended, exposing his Adam’s apple, which jumped enticingly under creamy, pale skin as he swallowed the alcohol. Yixing blinked twice and followed suit, letting the metallic bite of what turned out to be cheap well vodka slip down his tongue and throat.

         Yixing righted himself, adjusting to the slick taste in his mouth, and saw the stranger already reaching for the other two shots. One in each hand, he scooted out from between the stools, off to join some other lucky patrons. Yixing’s eyes followed him through the crowd. He marveled at the randomness of the last minute and felt a flash of disappointment at the sudden departure of this intriguing person. But after a few steps, the young man snapped his face around to catch Yixing staring. He smirked playfully at Yixing’s attentive but befuddled expression, and winked just before sauntering off, his tight black jeans silhouetting his long legs. Yixing continued to stare after him for another few seconds indulgently, internalizing the improbability of what just happened. He was so engrossed in trying to absorb the mischievous wink and the stunning smile (not to mention the booze) that he jumped in his seat when Chanyeol’s heavy hand landed on his shoulder.

         “Hey, hyung! You’re still here!” The slack grin and sheen of sweat on his friend’s face indicated Chanyeol’s lack of sobriety, and Yixing smiled in amusement, the vodka seeping through his own body to his warming cheeks. Chanyeol jerked his chin toward the crowd, shouting over the noise. “Who was that guy?”

         Good question, one Yixing had just been asking himself. “Uh… I.. I don’t know.” Chanyeol leaned in, unable to hear his friend’s response in the crowded bar. Yixing shook his head in an attempt to clear it, and spoke louder. “Just some guy! What’s up?”

         Chanyeol proceeded to animatedly rattle off the names and profiles of six new people he’d met tonight, whom Yixing just _had_ to meet. Yixing nodded along, but found himself only half listening while the other half of his attention was spent attentively scanning the crowd for a dark blond swoop of hair, a glittering smile, or maybe thin, dexterous fingers visible in the crowd. His heart gradually cooled though, as the young stranger was nowhere in sight. He turned back to Chanyeol, who was thumbing the screen of his phone, squinting his eyes at the brightness.

         “Hey, hyung. Do you think Baekhyun is up still? It’s not that late, he won’t mind if I call, right?”

         “Chanyeol, no. Do not call him. We’ve talked about this – ”

         “What? No, come on, I just want to talk to him. Do you think he’d come out if I ask him? He would, don’t you think? I’ll just call him…”

         So, Yixing spent the next half hour attempting to either distract Chanyeol from his alcohol-induced romanticism, or discretely take his phone. Yixing couldn’t count how many times he’d saved his friend from the perils of drunk dialing, and as usual, the task sobered him up quickly. The heat of the vodka, and of the charming stranger, had been potent but short-lived, and Yixing’s feet were firmly on the ground again.

         Yixing followed behind a stumbling, affectionate Chanyeol a short while later out to the street, where he was shut safely in a cab after a sloppy goodbye. Yixing watched the cab travel up the street and around the corner and he smiled to himself, palming the screen of Chanyeol’s phone, which was presently stashed away in Yixing’s pocket. _You’ll thank me later, Yeollie_.

         Yixing took out his own phone. 1:05am, a new record. Chanyeol would surely praise him for his burgeoning social life, and Yixing planned on emphasizing that he stayed out later than Chanyeol, a first for their Friday night adventures. But with his friend on his way home, Yixing found the bar even less inviting than when he’d arrived. He should have made his way to his quiet apartment alone, his night was most definitely over, but a lingering question led his feet back toward the door, the pulsing music from within filling Yixing’s ears intrusively.

         He would just take one more look.

         After weaving through bodies, surveying the bar, the tables, the dance floor without finding who he was looking for, he resigned himself to the safe disappointment of a missed opportunity. He’d go home sober and single, as usual… after a quick trip to the restroom.

         Yixing pushed the door to the restroom open and froze in the doorway. _He_ was there, slumped against the far wall, his mussed golden hair hiding his face. Yixing’s eyes scanned over him, taking in the ripped, mangled neck of his white shirt, the dark red splotches on his denim vest, and the source of those spots, the bleeding gash just below his eye. He was holding one trembling hand with the other, the knuckles torn up and dripping blood onto the dingy tile floor. Yixing gaped at the sight for a second as the young man lifted his eyes to find Yixing’s. They locked as they had over the shot glasses, communicating need and desperation and… relief?

         “Jesus…”

         Yixing took three, four strides and knelt in front of the young man. This close, under the foul fluorescence of bathroom lighting, Yixing could see how young he really was – Yixing guessed he hadn’t reached twenty yet – and the damage was clearly visible as he examined the rest of the boy’s hunched frame. His hand was in bad shape, and his clothes were torn and warped, but, from what Yixing could tell, his face took the worst of whatever happened – the red abrasion was already swelling, the cut angling across his sleek cheekbone.

         “Where else are you hurt? Do you need to go to the hospital?”

         “Uhhhgh. N-no. I’m…”

         “Just hold on, I’ll call an ambulance.”

         “No really, I’m… I’m okay. It’s not that b—”

         Yixing reached for his phone, one hand still resting on the arm of the other. He paused though, when a hand covered his, long fingers snaking up his wrist and clasping his forearm.

         “Stop… please. It’s okay. Really, I don’t need an ambulance. See?” With a weak smile, that even in this situation caused Yixing’s heart to rev pleasantly, the young man tried to push up off the floor to stand, faltered, and tipped sideways with a groan. Yixing quickly wrapped his arms around his torso, taking on his weight.

         “Yeah, you’re clearly just fine. What happened?”

         “Mmrph.” The boy winced as he stood with Yixing’s supportive arms around him. “ _God_ , it hurts. These guys followed me in here and they just jumped me. I don’t even know what happened. I didn’t know them…” His voice lifted in pitch, strained, then trailed off. He dropped his head and inhaled sharply, from pain or shock, or both.

         Yixing angled the boy’s flexible frame to lean gently against the wall, and he pressed his palms evenly into the other’s shoulders to keep him steady. The slight lolling of the boy’s neck, paired with the pitiful balance from the knees down exhibited the combined effects of alcohol, adrenaline, and fear. And as before, Yixing made his mind up instantly, almost as if there was no alternative.

         “Okay,” he started slowly, pleased at hearing the affection and warmth in his own voice as he spoke. “My name is Yixing, and if you say it’s alright, I’m going to bring you back to my place so I can clean you up and make sure you’re not severely injured, okay? I… want to help you... Please, let me help you.” Yixing let one hand drift from its flat position across the young man’s slim shoulder, trailing his fingers indulgently along the sinewy deltoids, holding fast around his elbow protectively.

         The boy lifted his head, the dazed expression on his face coming into focus at Yixing’s words, his eyes searching Yixing’s own. He paused, his bottom lip trembling, then nodded heavily.

         “Please.” His almost feminine lips formed the word carefully, pursing and relaxing as he gave Yixing control. “Please take me home.”

\--- --- ---

         Yixing chucked his keys onto his kitchen counter as he nudged his front door open with his foot. He flicked the light switch by the door with his free hand, while his other stayed wrapped around the slim waist of the weak, injured boy, holding him up gently. Yixing led him into the kitchen, lowering him down into a chair to rest.

         “Okay, Jongdae.” The skin on Yixing’s neck tingled a bit as he said the boy’s name out loud, told softly to him during the short car ride over. He crouched down in front of his new charge and laid his hands on Jongdae’s knees. “How are you feeling?”

         Yixing looked up, searching the bruised, pale face above him. The cut on his cheek had mostly clotted, though the dried blood trailing down from the gash to his jaw still looked gruesome. Jongdae’s posture was defensive, his shoulders drooped, one hand cradling the busted one near his chest, and Yixing read his expression as an enigmatic blend of pain, fried nerves, and shyness. Despite the traumatic event that led to this moment, Yixing found himself holding back a smile looking into Jongdae’s dewy, pleading eyes. Now that he was home, now that he could really focus on taking care of this boy sitting here in front of him, Yixing felt a wave of intense sympathy crest in his heart, followed by an echo of the fizzy, instant attraction he’d felt at the bar. Without consciously deciding to do so, Yixing felt his right thumb outlining small circles across the tear in the knee of the boy’s jeans.

         Jongdae swallowed once. “My cheek, and my hand… I tried to fight them off, and I think I fucked up the punch.” Yixing couldn’t help the short laugh that escaped his lips, causing the boy to smile feebly at him. Yixing’s fingers squeezed the boy’s knee affectionately, eliciting an abrupt hiss from the boy’s lips. Yixing flinched, immediately removing his hands from the boy.

         “What is it?!”

         “Ahh… it’s just sore. They kicked me when I was down… it’s not broken or anything, I don’t think, it’s just sore, really.”

         Yixing’s eyes darted around the boy’s body, looking for evidence of serious injury that required an ambulance. Jongdae had been fairly quiet during the short drive over, but it was possible the beating was more severe than the boy realized, and Yixing didn’t want to waste any time here if he needed to go to the hospital.

         “Let me see.”

         “I really don’t think it’s that bad…”

         “Jongdae, if you’re really hurt, I won’t be able to forgive myself if I didn’t do everything I could to help you. Please, let me see how bad it is.”

         “Okay.” Jongdae reached his uninjured hand forward and gripped Yixing’s shoulder for balance as he stood. Yixing stayed crouched, his head lifted to survey Jongdae’s progress as he removed his vest. Jongdae looked into Yixing’s warm, concerned eyes as he started to lift his blood-stained shirt. Arms crossed halfway up his bare torso, Jongdae yelped, and Yixing’s hands were instantly on Jongdae’s body, as if to hold him together should he crumble apart on the spot.

         “What?”

         “My hand.” Jongdae’s eyes were closed, his bottom lip crushed in his teeth. Yixing’s heart ratcheted at the sight, a tumultuous mix of panic and poorly timed desire.

         “Are you sure it isn’t broken?” Yixing stood, but kept his hands secure on Jongdae’s waist under the fallen hem of his thin t-shirt. Peripherally, he marveled at the flawless texture of the boy’s skin, but he kept his hands still, worry and care at the forefront of his mind.

         “Mm… mhm. Look – ” Jongdae raised the hand between his and Yixing’s faces and slowly, shakily wiggled his bloodied fingers, smiling at the relief he saw wash over Yixing’s expression. They stood like that for a few seconds, Yixing’s hands holding an increasingly docile Jongdae steady, Jongdae searching the face of the tall, stalwart man who touched him so kindly. The pain in his hand ebbing away, Jongdae reached his fingers up tentatively and let the pads of his first and second fingers skim the cool pink of Yixing’s ample bottom lip. He felt Yixing’s warm breath as Yixing pursed his lips.

         “I think I may need your help with this.” There was a pretty flush in Jongdae’s otherwise drained cheeks as he lifted both arms fully above his head. Yixing felt another swell in his heart seeing Jongdae assume this vulnerable position, topped with an almost coy pouting expression. The older man obliged and slowly ran his hands up the younger’s prominent ribs, bunching the shirt as he went. Jongdae closed his eyes at the sensation, enjoying the gentleness in his impromptu healer’s fingers. Yixing lifted the shirt up with the utmost care, pulling the fabric away from Jongdae’s face and hand to avoid irritating his injuries. His shirt discarded on the floor beside the vest, a half-stripped Jongdae stood still, cradling his hand again, looking at Yixing expectantly. Oddly, Yixing was the more anxious of the two. The boy really was stunning. He was thin, and a little bony, angular in a way that suggested he might still grow into his lanky limbs. But his skin was lovely, milky and lustrous in Yixing’s eyes. He was toned, the evidence of capable muscles beneath his skin, and Yixing found his gaze lingering around the low-slung waist of Jongdae’s black jeans, appreciating the sleek abdomen framed by the suggestion of hipbones that continued behind the dark denim. Yixing swallowed, containing himself, and went to work examining Jongdae for unseen damage that might warrant a trip to the hospital.

         After several minutes of Yixing’s cautious questions and softly spoken requests to test the integrity of Jongdae’s body, they were both satisfied that Jongdae was not severely injured, luckily. Yixing rifled through his pantry for a first aid kit, and began pulling out various bandages to apply to Jongdae’s hand and cheek.

         “Some painkillers and a good, long sleep will do you good, I think. I can patch you up the best I can here, and take you home, if you want.”

         Jongdae paused, his eyes scanning the floor of the kitchen, finding the right way to respond.

         “Oh, well… it’s so late, I don’t want to be more of an imposition than I already am… but I… I was hoping maybe I could just stay here? For the night, I mean?”

         Yixing looked up from his collection of wraps and gauze. Stay the night? Yixing had been priding himself on his good behavior, given the potent temptation this boy presented, being half-naked and vulnerable _in his kitchen._ Knowing that Jongdae needed him had quashed the desires that stirred in Yixing’s gut, but they snuck up and started blurring his judgment again with this proposition. Stay the night. Jongdae, here, until morning. An image of Jongdae’s dark blond hair splayed across Yixing’s pillow flashed across his vision, the morning sun streaking across his calm, dozing face. It was too rich a thought, and Yixing forced it from his mind.

         “Please, Yixing?” And for the third time that night, Yixing made up his mind without wavering as a furious heat shot from his ears to his pelvis and back up to his chest. There just was no alternative.

         Yixing took two steps away from the counter toward Jongdae, his eyes settling on Jongdae’s angled, pleading ones.

         “Of course.” A pleased, grateful warmth glowed from Jongdae’s expression, a look that shook Yixing’s knees. He was in major trouble.

\--- --- ---

         It was 2:37am. After complying with Jongdae’s request to stay, Yixing had attempted to curb his libidinous cravings by being perfectly hospitable. He occupied himself by demanding Jongdae drink a huge bottle of water after taking three painkillers, then serving him hot, comforting ramen. After setting the bowl in front of him, and receiving a gracious smile in return, he quickly took his leave, retreating to his shower to straighten himself out.

         The hot water coaxed Yixing into a relaxed, open mood, allowing him to ponder how he should best handle this unexpected situation. The fact was, Jongdae had experienced a trauma and he needed to recover in a safe, comforting environment. Yixing could provide that, and would gladly, if he could just resist his own lust for this adorable kid. _Because_ _seriously_ , Yixing thought logically, _he’s got to be nine, maybe ten years younger than me. He’s cute, but he’s just a kid, and no amount of loneliness would justify taking advantage of this situation. Take care of him, let him sleep, and send him on his way tomorrow._ As the last of the shampoo trailed down the drain, Yixing resolved to happily, enthusiastically even, trade in his own indulgence to pamper the adorable, innocent Jongdae. He turned off the water and quickly changed into roomy sweat pants and a thermal. He scanned his closet for a similar set for Jongdae, set them on the counter of the bathroom, and wandered out to the kitchen.

         Jongdae, still shirtless since the improvised medical exam, had migrated from the kitchen to the living room, where he sat with his legs folded underneath him on Yixing’s leather chair. The book Yixing had been reading, Jeffrey Eugenides’s latest novel, was propped against Jongdae’s knees; the picture was more idyllic than Yixing had prepared for, but he stayed focused.

         “You’re welcome to take a shower, if you don’t think it’ll bother your cuts.” Jongdae looked up from the book with heavy lids.

         “Mmm… that sounds so good right now. I know I smell like Friday-night-bar-bathroom. Ick.” He smiled as he got to his feet gingerly, laying the book down where he’d found it. He lightly walked over to Yixing and paused next to him. He leaned over, just a bit, and Yixing heard him inhale through his nose just inches from Yixing’s shoulder.

         “See?” Jongdae spoke low, almost in a whisper. “ _You_ smell amazing.” He took one more sniff, his nose just touching the waffle fabric on Yixing’s arm, triggering goosebumps all over Yixing’s scalp. He made a throaty whine, as if in jealousy, and made his way toward Yixing’s open bedroom door. “Through here?”

         “Mhm. There’s a clean towel and clothes on the counter and a new toothbrush in the top drawer. Take your time.”

         “I will! You’re taking such good care of me, Yixing. Really… thank you.”

         Yixing could only nod as Jongdae turned into the bathroom.

\--- --- ---

         Yixing spent the next twenty minutes straightening up, gathering the necessary bandages Jongdae might need after his shower, and laying out an extra blanket for himself on the couch. He also fished Chanyeol’s phone out from his discarded pants pocket and plugged it in to charge in the kitchen. He noticed several messages waiting on the screen and laughed to himself. Even passed out drunk at home, Chanyeol was more social than he was.

         Yixing left the light by the couch on to find his way to his makeshift bed in a few minutes, but he turned off the rest in the kitchen and went back into his bedroom. He fluffed the bed pillows and smoothed the comforter before sitting on one side. He had just extended his legs fully, thumbing through his own phone, when he heard the shower turn off. His socked feet twitched in anticipation, though for what, he couldn’t say. He returned to perusing his phone to occupy himself. After a few more minutes, he heard the door open, and he looked up.

         Yixing’s heart seized uncontrollably at the vision emerging from his steamy bathroom. Jongdae stood, his previously styled hair floppy and damp and tangling in his lashes, in the center of the bathroom doorframe, backlit by the yellow-toned lights behind him. His clean bare feet were crossed, his right foot tucked behind the bony ankle of his left. The thick fabric of the navy sweatshirt Yixing had laid out for him pooled at his wrists, those enticing, thin fingers peeking out, one hand holding the other again in front of his chest. Yixing had chosen that particular pullover because it was a favorite of his, its worn-in texture homey and comforting on lazy weekends, but what was loose on Yixing’s tall, masculine body dwarfed Jongdae’s small frame. The worn, relaxed collar dipped low enough to expose his clavicles, accentuating his feminine neck. A freshly-scrubbed flush, punctuated by the cut across his cheekbone, crept up just under his sleepy, half-lidded eyes; he looked so sedate and happy that he might have been a little inebriated still. Plus, that was the only reasonable explanation for why Jongdae seemed to have forgotten to put on the plaid cotton pants Yixing had laid out with the pullover.

         “I feel much better, thank you, Yixing.” His almost bashful, modest pose in the doorway, paired with his sweet, high voice, struck an unprepared Yixing as supremely provocative, almost more so than the bare ankles, calves, knees, thighs.

         “O-of course.” Yixing clumsily regained a fraction of his composure and averted his eyes from the bruise he saw blooming on the inside of Jongdae’s left thigh, the place he’d accidentally touched earlier, where those thugs at the bar had kicked him. The sight made his stomach flip, and he experienced another odd mix of emotions: anger, sympathy, tenderness, and ever-present want. He put them aside in favor of unassuming kindness. He refused to take anything from someone who’d had a night like Jongdae had.

         “Pants didn’t fit? I have others if you want to…”

         “I never sleep in pants. You don’t mind, do you?” Having showered, Jongdae seemed much more at ease, and again, each slow, soft word from his mouth wafted over Yixing like wind chimes, sugary and watery in their tone.

         “Oh, no that’s fine. Whatever makes you most comfortable.” Yixing swung his legs over the side of the bed, preparing to stand. “Do you need anything else before bed?” Yixing’s attempted neutral provision was wavering, and he thought it best to get out of there, to leave Jongdae to his much needed sleep and avoid getting in too deep here.

         But Jongdae held up his hands suddenly in a halting sign. Yixing paused, perched on the edge of the bed. Jongdae smiled, flicked the light off from the bathroom, and padded his way over to the side opposite Yixing. Yixing watched him move; it was such a contrast to the flirty persona from the bar and the desperate weakness on the way to his apartment; he seemed almost juvenile in his movements, highlighted by his skinny, exposed legs and oversized sweater. He stood beside the bed, peering at Yixing from under his loose mop of hair.

         “I was hoping you’d stay with me for a while. You’ve been so kind to me tonight… you make me feel better.” As his request formed on his lips, he swayed slightly from side to side, a childish affectation that further added to his boyish quality. In his shyness, he worried the hem of the pullover with his fingers, causing Yixing’s eyes to drift distractedly. Something about this kid was boring a hole in Yixing’s respectable judgment, and it got worse the younger he acted. _What the hell is this?!_

         “Please stay. I feel safe with you.” Yixing’s lips parted as he felt himself sigh. The delicious torture he’d been feeling since meeting Jongdae, the tension between restraint and desire, between lonely sobriety and indulgence, between engagement or retreat, exploded inside Yixing’s heart at those words. Here was this boy, vulnerable and hurt and beautiful, _wanting him_. That thought seeped into his marrow and warmed the lonely corners of himself he had locked away. Whatever this was, he could be here for Jongdae, he could be the buoy this boy held onto, _nurture him,_ if only for tonight. So, Yixing returned to his previous position, lounging, legs extended, and he nodded his head. Jongdae grinned wide, and _cooed_ at Yixing’s wordless agreement. He quickly crawled onto the bed, on top of the sheets, and slunk over to Yixing, still cradling his injured hand. Yixing put his phone aside and held his arm out as Jongdae curled his body into the inviting nest there, his face pressed into Yixing’s warm thermal shirt, breathing in contentedly.

         “Thank you, Yixing, for taking care of me.” Jongdae’s fingers clung to the fabric of Yixing’s thin shirt, pawing at him appreciatively, both of them enjoying the shift of skin separated by fabric. It was almost too much, and Yixing felt deeply hidden fantasies sneak up inside him. Words formed on his lips, and he couldn’t help himself.

         “Of course, little one.” Yixing beamed when he saw Jongdae’s eyes close giddily at the affection. _He is perfect._ Jongdae whined sleepily and curled up tighter, nuzzling into Yixing’s protective, strong body. Yixing let his arm fall and began tracing little shapes on Jongdae’s back, eliciting more sweet, soft sounds from Jongdae’s pert mouth. He let his head rest against the headboard, and he closed his eyes.

         “Yixing?”

         “Mhm?”

         Jongdae stirred a little, and Yixing peered down at him. _He really looks tiny all balled up like that_ , Yixing thought. He watched Jongdae’s fingers lightly play on his chest again, the exposed, split knuckles much improved by the shower. Yixing took the opportunity to reach over to the nightstand for the ointment and bandages he’d reserved.

         “You’ve been so kind to me…” Yixing took Jongdae’s hand in his own as he listened, applying the ointment, the gauze, and the wrap to Jongdae’s pliant hand to keep everything in place. “Could you maybe… to help me fall asleep…” Jongdae paused.

         “What is it, little one?” Yixing returned Jongdae’s now bandaged hand to his own chest, where it flexed and pressed fondly into him, claiming Yixing as his.

         “Could you sing to me? Please?”

         “Oh.”

         “You have such a nice voice. I bet you sing well and… I want to hear your voice as I fall asleep. Please, Yixing?”

         And as he had been the whole night, Yixing was powerless to Jongdae.

         “Any requests?”

         “Mmm… a love song. Your favorite love song, Yixing.” Jongdae settled in again, snuggled into Yixing’s side. He extended his right leg and curled it around Yixing’s left. Even this movement, which caused the hem of the pullover to creep up Jongdae’s side, baring his skin to Yixing’s greedy eyes, didn’t feel sexually charged to Yixing. It was closeness, intimacy that Jongdae wanted on a night like this, when strangers had betrayed him. Yixing’s protection and affection were redemption for one of the shittiest nights of the young man’s life, a burden Yixing was honored to bear. He reached down toward his feet slowly, shifting Jongdae as little as possible, and pulled a blanket up over them both. Then, he began to sing.

         Yixing lilted from one song to another, singing his favorite parts, playing with the melodies, letting his mind dig up the songs from his memory that felt most painful when he was lonely, but felt lush and warm on his lips now with this boy falling asleep beside him.

         After a while, as Yixing hummed quietly, Jongdae’s breathing steadied into a slow rhythm. Yixing surveyed the precious young body curled up beside him adoringly, astonished by the circumstances that brought him to this point. He felt himself getting sleepy as well, and let the drowsiness of late night/early morning set in. He closed his eyes, drifted, and fell asleep to the clean, quiet smell of his own shampoo in Jongdae’s hair.


	2. Chapter 2

        Yixing floated in and out of hazy, golden dreams as the sun rose outside. His eyes reluctantly opened when warm rays slowly eased their way onto his skin through the un-curtained window. He blinked drowsily, and took a deep breath. The scent that filled him up was heady – soap and skin, so close to him. His eyes focused, and his sleepy pulse hummed to life, seeing the soft waves of blond hair rumpled against his chest, the hand, dwarfed by the bulky bandage, still grasping his shirt in slumber, and the two pairs of legs that were intertwined together, indistinguishable from each other under the cozy blanket.

        _Good morning, little one._

        Yixing remained still, letting his brain wake up without disturbing Jongdae. He vaguely knew there were some questions that needed answers; this weird, unforeseen fantasy wouldn’t hold up in the harshness of daylight. But for now, Yixing let the mist of sleep mix with the glow of morning, numbing him to logic and rationality. He allowed himself to press pause on his thoughts, stilled on this miraculous moment.

        As he had fleetingly imagined the night before, Jongdae looked like an angel nestled against him, surrounded by illuminated white sheets. The soft sound of his breathing, so close to his own skin that it warmed his chest through his shirt, caused Yixing’s heart to ache with affection. Jongdae’s sandy hair was thick and shiny and Yixing longed to tangle his fingers in it, to understand the faceted golden locks with care.

        The more he watched, the finer his attention on Jongdae’s sun-kissed features became, the stronger Yixing felt his own body react. The nerves in his legs tingled as Yixing grew more acutely aware of how Jongdae’s bare ones were pressed into him. Heat registered in his mind, radiating from the angular hip bones he felt perpendicular to his own. The image of Jongdae standing naked to the waist in his kitchen, Yixing eye-level with those painfully teasing hip bones, flashed in his mind. The heat between their bodies grew more urgent in Yixing’s mind. He wanted friction – just a little.

        Yixing shifted minutely, angling his hips into Jongdae’s a few precious degrees, relishing the cuts and curves of their bodies hinging against each other. Jongdae made a small noise at the movement, a darling muffled whine, and he hitched his right leg further up on top of Yixing, his bare thigh now dangerously close to Yixing’s increasingly alert pelvis. Jongdae exhaled heavily, burrowed into Yixing’s chest, and continued sleeping. Yixing held his breath; his brain kicked awake, desperate not to rouse this beautiful, perfect boy, but he couldn’t help the tense yearning in his muscles, the incendiary urgency in his bones, fixated on the sensation of Jongdae’s slim body deliciously contoured to his.

        Yixing bit his lip and forced himself to lie completely still. _What the hell am I doing?! He’s just a kid!_ Guilt and reason flooded his head, and he bit down harder, feeling the tender skin behind his lip yield to the pressure; the taste of blood distinguished some of the heat shooting up his arms and legs. He breathed through his nose carefully, willing the needy strain in his groin to dissipate. He needed to get a grip.

        Minutes ticked by, and Yixing remained stalled. He couldn’t decide what to do. Clearly, he had some misplaced attraction for this boy. He had given in last night; he had let Jongdae seduce him… No. He needed to take responsibility for this situation. He was twenty-eight. He was the adult. He should have slept on the couch; perhaps he shouldn’t have brought Jongdae home at all. Yixing closed his eyes in frustration. He should have just gone home with Chanyeol. Things would be much easier if he had woken up alone this morning. But, had Yixing not gone back into the bar, had he not hoped to get one last glimpse of those enchanting, vibrant eyes, he wouldn’t have found Jongdae, bleeding, helpless, and alone. The memory of Jongdae’s crumpled frame, marred by blood and fear, shooed some of the guilt eating at Yixing. He couldn’t regret bringing him home. He would do the same thing, given the chance again. But he had to do this right. He’d brought Jongdae home to help him, to make sure he was safe and protected, to nurse him back to health, at least for one night. He never intended to take advantage of Jongdae – he had done everything he could to make him feel comfortable and secure. He wouldn’t let his loneliness or greed spoil that, not now. 

        Yixing swiveled his head toward his nightstand. He reached, as slowly and smoothly as possible, for his phone. 8:10am blinked on the screen above two voicemail notifications. Yixing furrowed his brow, curious, but let the screen go dark again. He’d listen to those later.

        Cautiously, Yixing pivoted his body away from Jongdae. In his sleep, Jongdae’s grip on Yixing’s shirt tightened slightly, and the ache around Yixing’s heart pulsed again. But he persisted in extracting himself from under Jongdae’s small, pliant frame, doing his best to ease Jongdae into the warm space he’d left behind. After such a harrowing night, Jongdae stirred, but slept through the disturbance.

        Fully untangled from the warm confines of soft sheets and sweet skin, Yixing stood beside his bed, looking down at Jongdae. _What am I going to do with you, little one?_ He reached out and gently pulled the blanket up to shelter Jongdae’s neck and shoulders, cherishing the calm, innocent expression Jongdae wore in sleep. His curvaceous mouth pouted open with his face smushed into the pillow like a child. Yixing’s throat clenched, noticing the swollen gash marring Jongdae’s pristine, china-smooth cheekbone. How could anyone have done this ugly, heinous thing to a boy like Jongdae? It was jarring, seeing the evidence of how beastly and violent people could be on a person so pure. It didn’t make sense.

        Flustered and overwhelmed, Yixing grabbed his phone from his nightstand and tiptoed out his bedroom door, closing it quietly behind him.

\--- --- ---

        A steaming cup of coffee in hand, his phone held between his teeth, Yixing opened the sliding door to his balcony and stepped out into the warm morning air. He set down his phone and mug on the arm of one of his weathered wooden chairs and stretched, arms raised above him, fully extended. Eyes closed, he breathed in deeply, emptying his mind of all but immediate sensations: the coolness tickling his scalp as his ashy, disheveled hair parted and fluttered in the breeze, the satisfying pull in his back and shoulders as he stretched, and the faint, familiar smells of his neighborhood – distant ocean air from the coast, toasted, oily food from a street vendor around the corner, car exhaust. Relaxing his arms, he exhaled in a huff, and sat, taking in the view from his beloved, elevated vantage point. He spent more time out here than inside, including sleep. It was gratifying to sit alone on his balcony, undisturbed, while observing the frenetic, pulsing lives of the world below his third floor haven. It was like time stopped for Yixing, while he watched it hurry on for everyone else. However much he wished he could be an enlightened extrovert like Chanyeol, his insular tendencies won out most of the time. This balcony was both an escape from and a passive connection to the world, a balance he found comforting.

        That train of thought eventually reminded Yixing of Chanyeol’s mischief from the night before, and of the cell phone still plugged into the wall charger in the kitchen, which also reminded him of his own waiting voicemails. Yixing hopped up and snuck back inside, glancing at the still closed door to his bedroom, unplugged Chanyeol’s phone, and returned to his sun-warmed chair on the balcony. 

        He checked Chanyeol’s phone first. He left the various text messages alone – he recognized none of the names or numbers anyway. But he did see a familiar name next to three missed calls. Apparently, “Baekkie,” as he was listed in Chanyeol’s contacts, had been on the same wavelength as Chanyeol last night, at least around 12:45am, 12:58am, and 1:27am. Yixing smiled to himself. As he’d been squeamish at seeing the inside of a fish in high school biology, Chanyeol was not usually one for intimacy and emotional vulnerability, preferring a variety of surface friends, fun acquaintances without demands. There were few exceptions to that rule; Yixing counted himself as one and Baekhyun as the other. Baekhyun also broke down Chanyeol’s even, laidback nature. The two of them were either intensely wrapped up in each other or completely distant, often shifting from one to the other with no warning. They both ran indiscriminately hot and cold for the other, not always at the same time, and while Yixing found it a little exhausting to follow the dramatic dynamic of their relationship, he nurtured a secret hope that they’d end up together. Chanyeol’s exuberant personality was smoothed out by Baekhyun’s sensitivity and thoughtfulness. They complimented each other, at least when they weren’t pushing each other’s buttons. When it was good between them, it was gold, and Yixing saw a light in Chanyeol that made him believe that love was worth all the pain and loneliness he felt in his own solitude. 

        Apart from the missed calls from Baekhyun, there was nothing else of interest on Chanyeol’s phone, so Yixing set it aside to pick up his own. He lifted it to his ear as he listened to the first of two messages.

        _“Hey, Yixing-hyung? It’s Baek – I know it’s late, but I’m here with Chanyeol and we’re hoping you have his phone? We can’t find it anywhere here, he says you probably have it, but I wonder if he left it at the ba– ” “Xing has my phone, I’m sure he does. Hyung! Why did you take my phone?! Baekkie tried to call me, and I didn’t answer because yoooou had it!” “Yeollie, just calm down…” “But I missed your call because Xing Xing stole my phone!” “Yeollie, just… Anyway, hyung, if you do have his phone, just text me so we know where it is? Bye!”_

The message ended, and Yixing felt his smile creep toward his ears. Listening to it again, Yixing pictured poor Baekhyun trying his best to find Chanyeol’s missing phone, with a tipsy Chanyeol hanging on him, sloppy and endearing, grabbing for the phone, evident in the muffled white noise recorded in the message. Yixing played the second message.

        _“Hyung, it’s me. Chanyeeeooool.” Yixing laughed at the ridiculously loud, slurred whisper Chanyeol must have thought was discrete. “This is Baekkie’s phone, but it’s me talking, okay, hyung? I… he’s here, hyung! Baekkie came out to my place to see me, and he tried to call me before, but yoooou have my phone… you have my phone right, hyung? And I got out of the cab from the bar and he was just there, sitting on my front steps, and he’s in my fucking bathroom right now, hyung, and I fucking missed him so fucking much, and I really need my phone back, hyuuung! But don’t… don’t come over tonight… I… just… bring it over tomorrow, okay, hyung? Okay… This is Chanyeol. Okay.”_

Yixing couldn’t help laughing openly at the audible record of his best friend’s idiocy. But apart from the sheer joy of having incoherent, heavy-breathing, drunk Chanyeol caught on a voicemail, Yixing was glad they were back together, at least proximity-wise, if nothing else. He started to type out a text, informing the pair that he did indeed have Chanyeol’s phone, when he heard the sliding door opening behind him. He jumped at the unexpected sound, and turned quickly around in his chair. 

        Squinting at the bright morning sun, still dressed only in the roomy pullover Yixing had provided, Jongdae padded out onto the balcony. He looked half-asleep still, his eyes puffy, hair ruffled and sticking up cutely at the back. He paused, hands clasped in front of him, looking small and childish, looking a Yixing blankly. 

        “Yixing?”

        “Hey.” Yixing immediately stood and shifted around his chair to face Jongdae. “How are you feeling? Did you sleep well?”

        Jongdae, soft and sweet and still foggy from recent dreams, looked up at Yixing, a meek pout emphasizing his lips. Without warning, he lunged forward into Yixing’s chest and pressed the unhurt side of his face into his shirt, his arms wrapped around Yixing’s neck. 

        “You weren’t there when I woke up! I forgot where I was, and I was alone, and I…” Jongdae’s voice was high pitched, thick with sleep, and muffled in Yixing’s shirt. He clung to Yixing’s neck with insistence and affection, his fingers grabbing fistfuls of thermal material. Unable to deny this display, Yixing tried to respond with chaste care; he tenderly embracing him back, holding their bodies together with strong, capable arms. 

        “I’m right here. I just didn’t want to wake you. You needed to sleep.” Jongdae breathed in and out a few times, nodded into Yixing’s chest, then pulled away a fraction to look up at Yixing. His eyes were creased at the corners in a contented expression, practically sparkling in the sunlight. 

        “I slept really well. Your bed is so comfortable!” He nuzzled his nose against Yixing’s shirt playfully. “You smell so good, Yixing. It gave me good dreams.” Jongdae loosened his grip and let his hand settle on the back of Yixing’s neck. Yixing felt a shiver between his skin and Jongdae’s and he hoped he wasn’t giving himself away. He pulled back a bit, quietly grateful Jongdae kept his hands clasped behind his neck, looking into Jongdae’s face inquisitively. 

        “How are you feeling? Do you need more medicine?” His eyes angled away from Jongdae’s deep coal ones to examine the cut on his cheek, which was not as bad as it had been the night before. It was swollen, and the purple-blue tones of a faint black eye looked like watercolors on Jongdae’s pale skin. He reached a hand up, resting his thumb just under the cut in the hollow of Jongdae’s cheek. Jongdae’s lips pursed almost imperceptibly, and he hummed lowly. Yixing dragged his thumb down along Jongdae’s jaw softly, and paused there, waiting for a response.

        “I’m okay. My hand doesn’t hurt as much, or this” he leaned into Yixing hand a little, “but my whole body is sore.” Jongdae smiled. “If it’s not too much trouble, I would take a couple more painkillers…” Yixing nodded.

        “You stay here, make yourself comfortable. I’ll be right back.” He returned Jongdae’s smile. “Coffee?”

        “Please! With lots of sugar! Thank you Yixing, you’re the best.” Yixing ducked inside before Jongdae could see how red his cheeks had become. 

        Yixing puttered around the kitchen for a few minutes, trying to formulate a plan for the rest of the day. Everything he thought of ended with Jongdae going back to wherever home was for him, leaving Yixing to the inevitable dissatisfaction and loneliness of his life. It’s not like they knew each other at all, and Yixing had no claim on Jongdae whatsoever, but in the few hours they’d spent together, Yixing had grown undeniably attached to this kid. He felt tethered… which wasn’t so bad, considering how Jongdae had become so affectionate since they’d come back here last night. _I wish I knew what he was thinking._ Yixing rolled his eyes at his own cliché uncertainties. But still, what was going on here? Yixing replayed their interactions in his head as he dumped two heaping spoonsful of sugar into the steaming mug of coffee. _He wanted, he asked, to stay here last night. And he asked me to sleep with him, too. Is that just because he was freaked out? It’s not like he’s made a move or anything. But he was all curled up with me, though. And the no pants thing?! Maybe he’s just flirty? But he stayed here the whole night, and he’s still here… What am I thinking, he’s not into me; he just needed help. He’ll have his coffee and he’ll leave.  Don’t be stupid, Yixing. Jesus…_

        Yixing realized he’d been stirring the sugar into the coffee for a full two minutes as his thoughts raged and rebelled. He sighed and grabbed the mug, the bottle of meds, and a quilt off the back of his couch. He walked toward the open glass door to rejoin Jongdae, but halted abruptly mid-step, sloshing a considerable amount of coffee out of the mug onto the floor. He could see Jongdae through the doorframe, sitting in the chair next to the one Yixing had been in before, leaning back in a relaxed pose. His long, bare legs that had been wrapped around Yixing not two hours ago stretched out in front of him, feet propped high on the railing, milky skin warming in the sun. Yixing actually gasped. 

        He pried his eyes away from Jongdae, noticing the hot coffee seeping into his socks. He hastily mopped it up and made his way reluctantly out onto the balcony. Jongdae looked up and smiled sweetly, the curves of his lips open and grateful. Yixing handed him the bottle of painkillers, of which he took three, and the coffee. 

        “I thought the breeze might be a little cold so…” Yixing indicated the quilt over his arm. Jongdae tilted his head slightly, assessing Yixing just like he had at the bar. He smiled again, coyly this time, and Yixing heard his heart pounding in his ears. 

        “So thoughtful, Yixing.” Jongdae spoke slowly, particularly enunciating Yixing’s name as it escaped his pink lips. “You know just how to take care of me.” Jongdae moved his arms aside, out like wings, and wiggled his toes. Yixing smirked at the cutesy act, but couldn’t help obliging anyway, unfolding the quilt across Jongdae’s legs for him. He paid particular attention to the deepening bruise by his knee, avoiding touching the area when he straightened out the quilt. Jongdae watched Yixing moving his hands protectively around him, as gentle and gracious as ever.  Once he was satisfied that Jongdae was comfortable, Yixing returned to his own chair. 

        “This is a really nice view. You have a great place here, Yixing.” Jongdae spoke softly as he sipped at his coffee peacefully. “Thank you for letting me stay with you.”

        “Oh... of course. I hope you’ve recovered a little since you’ve been here, I mean, I know it’s only been a few hours, but I hope the sleep helped anyway. Honestly, I wish I could have done more. Maybe I should have taken you to the hospital, but I just wanted to make sure you were okay… I feel awful about what happened to you at the – ” Yixing’s words were cut short when he saw Jongdae’s expression. He had turned his head sharply to Yixing, his features arranged in disbelief and confusion. His eyebrows were almost touching they were so tightly knit together. 

        “Yixing…” Yixing lifted his own eyebrows, unsure if he’d said something wrong. _Did I say too much? Am I coming on too strong…_ He pulled his full bottom lip behind his teeth, the shadows of his eyes shifting as he dropped his chin in modesty. _I should just shut up now._

        Jongdae moved deliberately and smoothly. He lowered his feet to the floor, placed his mug on the armrest of his chair, pulled the quilt away from his slim legs, and stood. He took two paces toward Yixing, who was watching him with wide-eyed expectation. He angled himself to stand with his feet planted together between Yixing’s own, as close as he could be to the seated older man in this position. He pivoted his hips, the hem of the navy pullover playing at his toned thighs, and lowered himself achingly slowly, down on top of Yixing. Yixing felt himself lean back, unsure what was going on, but he instinctively held his hands out, receiving Jongdae as he twisted above him. Jongdae’s thin frame met Yixing’s, his bony, bare butt settling on Yixing’s open lap. He sunk into Yixing as he had the night before, leaning his head against Yixing’s shoulder, tucking his legs up and over the armrest, nesting himself in Yixing’s arms. Yixing swallowed hard, trying desperately not to react too strongly to this unexpected move. He angled his neck to look at Jongdae to maybe read from his expression what he was thinking. Jongdae had the same concerned, pitying look, highlighted by his black eye. His lips looked swollen in their fullness this close up and Yixing waited for whatever sweet syllables might escape them. 

        “Yixing… what you’ve done for me… saving me last night…” Jongdae looked into Yixing’s eyes intensely as he spoke, willing him to understand. “I can never thank you enough for this. You… you’re my hero, Yixing.” Jongdae splayed his uninjured fingers out across Yixing’s chest, as if to declare the words directly to Yixing’s racing heart. He leaned his face closer into the crook of Yixing’s neck, letting his warm breath incite a wave of goosebumps over Yixing’s scalp again. 

        Yixing closed his eyes. He felt off balance, like he was building a sandcastle too close to the ocean, trying to resist Jongdae. Whatever resolve he marshalled, whatever rationality or promise he propped up, there was something about Jongdae beyond simple attraction that kept washing it all away. The wave image crashed in and out in his mind, but it was punctured by a sudden surge of anger. He loathed admitting it, but, just like a kid on the beach who keeps building in the same spot, Yixing felt a guilty pleasure in letting himself give in. He enjoyed watching the sandcastle be claimed by the waves; after all, if he didn’t want it to fall, he’d build it somewhere else. But Yixing knew he desperately wanted to concede, to surrender to the ache in his heart, to explore what it would be like to love someone like Jongdae, to be responsible for his happiness. And he hated himself for it. 

        Jongdae hotly purred his words onto Yixing’s collarbone, his nose grazing the veins that thrummed just beneath his skin. “And I’m your _little one_ , aren’t I?”

        Yixing tensed for just a second, scrunching his eyes together. But the torment his rationality and reluctance had caused since he’d found Jongdae in the bathroom at the bar finally drowned in the blessed wave of Jongdae’s whispered question. _Are you my little one? Mine?_

        “Jongdae…” Yixing leaned his cheek down, letting it rest against Jongdae’s golden hair. “Of course you’re my little one.” He felt Jongdae’s fingers walk up his shirt and hook behind his collar, his knuckles held against the dip between his collarbones. Yixing tightened his grip on Jongdae to hold him closer, Jongdae’s head nestled against his neck. Yixing thought maybe he was imagining it, but it felt like Jongdae’s breath had sped up, which triggered his hand to slip down from propping up Jongdae’s outside knee, slowly gliding his palm and fingertips along Jongdae’s thin but toned thigh, stopping only once two fingers had snuck just under the hem of his own navy pullover. He knew he was totally wrecked beyond redemption at this point, but he still felt a firm commitment to putting Jongdae’s comfort and safety first. He would let the younger man show him what he wanted and Yixing would blissfully oblige. 

        Jongdae turned further into Yixing’s body at the more sensual touch, further extending his hand under Yixing’s shirt at the neck, tracing his fine collarbone. Yixing found himself staring down at the folded, fragile-looking boy in his arms. His mind was somersaulting between the need to care for Jongdae, to dote on him as he deserved, and the growing desire to _dominate him_. His fingers snuck around behind Jongdae under the sweater, palming the valley of his lower back. He felt the divots of his spine under cool skin, and placed gentle but firm pressure there, just enough to arch Jongdae’s back a little. 

        Short and quick against Yixing’s neck, Jongdae’s breathing became urgent. Yixing savored the twitchy movements erupting all over the boy’s body. He knew the feeling well. Jongdae wanted friction. But Yixing held himself back, only meeting Jongdae where he led him, trying his best not to overstep their rapidly intensifying relationship. But Jongdae was massaging his hands into whatever part of Yixing he could grab onto and slowly rolling his narrow hips against Yixing’s lap. This caught Yixing by surprise; the motion and weight on his pelvis compounded unexpectedly, electric heat shooting through him. _Jesus… this is moving too fast…_ But the cautious, responsible part of his brain was suffocated by sheer physical reaction. He hitched Jongdae up a few inches in his arms, eliciting a high, needy whine from the younger, and took one of Jongdae’s bare ass cheeks in his hand. His skin was soft, but he felt muscles flexing just below the surface, and he kneaded the heel of his hand into the flesh, as slowly as he could manage. The effect was immediate. Jongdae keened at the sensation, his high, clear voice sending a chill up Yixing’s body. Jongdae buried his face in Yixing’s neck, his lips and teeth moving wetly against taut skin. Yixing kept at it, his thinner breathing giving away his own arousal as he pushed Jongdae further with his touch. Jongdae tilted his hips into Yixing’s hand rhythmically and flicked his tongue out, marking the angles of Yixing’s jaw and neck with kisses. Amidst his whimpering, Jongdae’s breathy, sugary whisper melted into Yixing’s ear.

        “ _Please_ … that feels so good, daddy.”

        Yixing’s cock throbbed under Jongdae’s hips. His thoughts went black for a few seconds as blood surged inside him. He heard a desperate, throaty moan escape his gritted teeth, and he dropped his head forward to his chest. His heart felt like it was convulsing. Another wrecked moan ripped out of him as he felt a roiling pressure in his hardening cock. He took a stuttered breath, then another. 

        _Daddy._

        His eyes flew open and he turned to look at Jongdae. The flush over Jongdae’s cheeks was obvious, as were his panting and dilated pupils. He looked absolutely gorgeous, but a cold rod of panic had cut through Yixing’s oblivious fog of lust. 

        _Daddy…_

        The word echoed in Yixing’s head… but he was still hard under his thin sweatpants. He had never, _ever_ explored fetishes of any kind; Yixing wasn’t necessarily proud of it, but he was a vanilla guy to a fault. But clearly he was responding to this… whatever this was. Jongdae had been fucking with his mind with all his little boyish affectations but Yixing had dismissed his own premature investment as a desire to take care of him. But this… being turned on by a boy probably a decade his junior calling him daddy…

        “Yixing?” Jongdae’s eyes cleared a little as he realized something was off. “I…” But Yixing was in no state to have this conversation. He averted his eyes from Jongdae’s, cutting him off and hastily moved his hands to the arm rests, poised to stand. Jongdae read his movements and stood clumsily. Yixing got to his feet, equally shaky, and walked pointedly inside. He heard Jongdae following him… _I’ve got to get him out of here. I can’t deal with this right now._ He walked to the kitchen counter and placed his hands palms down on the edge, facing away from Jongdae, hiding the prominent peak at the front of his pants. He couldn’t look at him; he didn’t trust himself with this angel-faced, half naked creature that had twisted him up so badly, couldn’t admit how cruelly Jongdae had wound him up. He didn’t want to scare him, but Yixing’s nerves were raw, and he needed to be alone, safe from the deeply satisfying and deeply disturbing swell he felt in his heart hearing Jongdae’s affectionate nickname for him. Had he encouraged this? Because he called him little one? Had he wanted this all along, without knowing it? _Jesus… I’m sick. I’m sick and this is so fucked up right now._

         “Yixing…” Yixing jumped when he felt Jongdae’s hand touch his back lightly. He turned and scooted away, trying to hide the spooked, ashamed look on his face. Jongdae hadn’t done anything wrong, really. With each passing second, Yixing felt more like he’d inadvertently coerced Jongdae to come here, like his subconscious had sought this fragile boy for some deep-seeded sexual deviance. But Jongdae looked upset, the color drained from his cheeks. “Yixing, I’m sorry. I just…”

        “No. I can’t do this.” Yixing held his hands up, halting Jongdae’s advance. “Please. It’s too much.” 

        “But I thought you liked me, and you’ve been so kind to me, I just felt like…”

        “Jongdae!” Yixing dropped his arms. He stood facing Jongdae, shoulders slumped, jaw tight. “How old are you, really?”

        Jongdae’s worried expression flickered, and he averted his eyes to the floor. 

        “Jongdae. Please.” Yixing took a step toward the boy, who looked smaller and more fragile in his guilty posture. Jongdae lifted his gaze up to Yixing, trepidation written on his skin. 

        “I’m seventeen.” A cold ache settled in Yixing’s gut. It was worse than he’d thought. He closed his eyes, shutting out the ugly truth feebly. But guilt and panic were sharpening their fangs to rip him apart any second. _This has to stop. Now._

        “Jongdae.” Yixing covered his face with his hands and spoke lowly through his fingers. “You need to go. I… I’ll take you home, but you need to go. I can’t…”

        “Yixing, please. I’m sorry, okay? I shouldn’t have said it, but it’s fine! I wanted to, _I still do_ , I…” Jongdae stammered, searching for a way to reverse time to hold onto the euphoria he’d felt in Yixing’s safe, solid arms. But Yixing’s voice amplified with frustration, filling the room oppressively.

        “No, Jongdae! This can’t happen! I’m twenty-eight years old! This is wrong!” He paced around the kitchen, fuming as he spoke. How could he have let this happen? He was never careless like this. And what was he supposed to do now?

        A small sound from the center of the room made him stop. He turned to Jongdae, who had dropped his head low, looking at the floor again. His shoulders were shaking and his hands were clutched at his mouth, trying to suppress tremulous sobs. He turned hastily away, crying into his fists, and Yixing’s heart burned at the agonizing sound. He hated himself for what he’d done, but he hated the idea of Jongdae suffering even more. He took heavy steps toward the boy, pausing behind him. Jongdae didn’t move away, nor did he turn to face him. So Yixing lightly touched his fingers to Jongdae’s arms, wordlessly asking for permission to comfort him like before. Jongdae’s crying slowed, and one hand reached out to find Yixing’s, their fingers linking. Despite the horror spinning inside him, Yixing still felt responsible for Jongdae, at least while he was here. He let his arms curve around Jongdae’s shoulders and chest, holding him close, his hands gently clasped around Jongdae’s uninjured one as Jongdae’s breathing normalized. 

        “I’m sorry,” Yixing spoke quietly and calmly, masking the nausea and disgust he felt, “but I can’t let this continue. I have to take you home. You have to understand that.” But Jongdae shook his head, his wavy hair tickling Yixing’s nose. 

        “Why? I know you’re older than me, I knew you were older at the bar, but I like that about you, and I’m almost eighteen…” Jongdae held onto Yixing’s hands possessively, persuading him to not let go. 

        “Jongdae… I like you. Too much. But this shouldn’t have happened. I shouldn’t have done this.” He paused, collecting his words. He could fix this. “I take responsibility for all of it, and I’m sorry I put you in this position. I need to just take you home. That’s it. I… I’m so sorry.” He squeezed Jongdae once, and started to pull away from him. But Jongdae held fast to one of his hands; he spun around to face Yixing, an indignant look on his ruddy, damp face. 

        “You take responsibility, huh? That’s it? Well… what if I refuse to leave?” His eyes were hot, but his voice wavered a bit. Yixing sighed and tried to take his hand away, but Jongdae wouldn’t relent. “No, Yixing. I don’t want to go. I want to stay here. I want you. _Please_ don’t make me go.” He lifted Yixing’s hand to his lips and kissed his knuckles with a feather-light, innocent touch. 

        A loud knock sounded through Yixing's front door – a few short bangs, then a muffled call from the other side. “Hyung! Open up! Give me my fucking phone back!”  
Yixing froze, recognizing Chanyeol's boisterous voice. _Fuck._ This situation with Jongdae had turned him inside out, exposed and reeling, and he definitely didn't need an audience for his sexual meltdown, however much he trusted Chanyeol. He looked at Jongdae, who was still clasping his hand, similarly shocked. But Jongdae read the panic on Yixing's face quickly. He planted another tame kiss on Yixing’s hand and ran on tip toes to his bedroom. Yixing watched him quietly close the door behind him, but not before leaving Yixing with an encouraging, hurried smile. Chanyeol's knocking sounded again and Yixing heard a second voice join his friend's. _Fantastic. Baekhyun can witness my depravity, too._

        Yixing hesitated to move, conflicted about protecting Jongdae, not to mention his pride, but Chanyeol's knocking was becoming more insistent, and he couldn't ignore it any longer. With another darting look to the closed door of his bedroom and a wholly unpleasant lurch in his stomach, he turned to let Chanyeol and Baekhyun inside.

        “Hyung! Finally... What were you doing, jerking off?” Despite his recent inebriation, Chanyeol waltzed energetically into Yixing's kitchen, a backwards red snapback perched on his fluffy bleached hair, grinning widely. Baekhyun followed behind, slightly more sedate, greeting Yixing warmly.

        “Hey guys. Sorry, I just got your messages. I would have brought your phone over later, I just...” Yixing trailed off, not sure how to finish that sentence. He instead rushed to grab Chanyeol's phone from where he'd abandoned it on his balcony. He handed it to Chanyeol.

        “Hyung, you okay? You look pretty awful. How late were you out last night?” 

        “Oh, uh, not long after you left.” Yixing’s pulse was skipping awkwardly. He needed to avoid talking, since he thought he might puke if he opened his mouth too much. Thankfully, Chanyeol’s favorite thing to do was talk. “Speaking of which, what happened with you guys?”

        Chanyeol moved about Yixing’s kitchen comfortably as he and Baekhyun recounted their impromptu reunion. Yixing dropped heavily into a chair and listened, occasionally sneaking a discrete look at his bedroom door. Apparently, while Yixing was putting Chanyeol in the cab to head home, Baekhyun had been making his way to the same place. He was waiting for Chanyeol on the front steps of his building when he arrived, flowers and heart in hand. He had tried to call, but Yixing had his phone, thus explaining the voicemails they’d left him.

        The two traded narration back and forth, talking over each other excitedly, chatty and doting in their mannerisms. Their infectious banter eased Yixing’s frenetic agitation a bit; Chanyeol’s exuberant laughter and Baekhyun’s playful jokes bounced off each other like they always had. Yixing did his best to loosen up.

         “So, did you… you know…”

        “Just ask the question, hyung.”

        “Yeah, don’t be shy. Did we what?” Baekhyun tilted his head and batted his lashes at Yixing teasingly. Often when the three of them were together, Yixing was relegated to the role of dubious prude, worthy of much shit-talking and forced embarrassment. But not today. Today, Yixing was _surely_ the most perverse person in the room. Defiantly, he mirrored Baekhyun’s pointed, faux-innocent expression.

        “Did you have loud, emotional, drunk sex and decide to get back together for the fiftieth time?” Yixing smiled dryly, though not unkindly. Both Chanyeol and Baekhyun blinked once at Yixing’s uncharacteristic brashness, but they recovered quickly.

        “In fact, we did. And it was great.” Chanyeol flashed his toothy smile at a slightly flushed Baekhyun, pleased with himself, and returned to cutting some vegetables he’d found in Yixing’s refrigerator.

        “Uh, Yeollie… what are you doing?” Yixing’s brain was not firing on all cylinders at the moment, and he hadn’t even registered until now that Chanyeol was elbow deep in some elaborate-looking food preparation. He flicked his eyes again toward his silent bedroom. _Seriously?! What am I doing? I don’t have time for this. I have a hot seventeen-year-old boy hiding in my bedroom!_

        “Didn’t I tell you? We came over for breakfast. I figured we should celebrate us getting back together, and, as you mentioned, the reunion sex, and I think providing sustenance after such an eventful evening is the least you can do, since you stole my phone when I so desperately needed it!” Chanyeol winked at Baekhyun, who grinned gamely, then raised his eyebrows at Chanyeol’s questionable progress with a pile of mushrooms. He stood and joined his boyfriend on the other side of the counter, taking over the more refined knife work. Yixing watched them move together as if no time had passed since last they were a couple. He might have been chuffed at their practiced dynamic, touching each other sweetly, using endearing nicknames and the like, if he weren’t too busy worrying about how he was going to shield Jongdae from the inevitable interrogation Baek and Chanyeol would unleash on him should they find out about him. 

        “You didn’t mention that, no.” Maybe he could quickly slip into his bedroom, tell Jongdae what was going on, leave him hidden there until his friends left… it shouldn’t be too long right? How long had it been already…

        For the third time that morning, Yixing was startled by an unexpected sound: first, a familiar click, then a creak, followed by and a few, slow footsteps. He looked over to see Jongdae emerging from his bedroom, fully dressed in Yixing’s clothes. He had managed to find pieces that fit him well despite their height difference – a pair of slim charcoal pants, cuffed to hide the excessive length on Jongdae’s smaller frame, a simple white collared shirt, and a dark mustard-colored sweater. His hair was styled cleanly away from his face, and apart from the black eye and the cut on his cheek, he looked put together, sophisticated, and, most importantly, _older than seventeen_. Yixing’s brain spasmed again, an unfortunate mix of manufacturing some last ditch effort to cover up the truth of this situation to his friends, fear and guilt over rejecting then leaving Jongdae alone to hide, and poorly timed attraction to this buttoned up, handsome version of Jongdae. He was spent; he had nothing left to give, so he simply gaped, his lips shaped in a round ‘O,’ at the boy he wanted, needed, and couldn’t have.

        Jongdae crossed the room with confident strides to join the trio. He beamed brightly, his winning smile a stunning first impression, particularly as it came so unexpectedly from Yixing’s closed bedroom. 

        “Hello. I’m Jongdae, a friend of Yixing’s. It’s nice to meet you.”


	3. Chapter 3

        Yixing parked his modest silver sedan, turned off the engine, and sat back in the driver’s seat.

        _What the actual fuck just happened?_

        His hands continued to grip the steering wheel as his brain caught up with him. Now, still and silent in his car, a rush of confusion, sadness, and guilt came over him as he recalled the last few hours’ events.

        When Jongdae had boldly materialized from his bedroom earlier, meticulously smartened up as if for a performance, Yixing’s handle on the situation deflated entirely. He had been so keyed up, so anxious over his friends’ inconvenient arrival that he’d completely blanked at Jongdae’s unexpected entrance. The younger must have expected such a reception because he came prepared, spinning the truth of their night together into something casual and innocent. He kept his distance from Yixing as he spoke, instead standing tall on his own, crafting a more mature persona for his audience. Yixing was a useless mute as he listened, capable only of nodding and smiling humbly to himself, in silent awe of the audacious flip in Jongdae’s demeanor.

        Baekhyun and Chanyeol stood arm in arm, eyes rapt on this lithe creature who seemed to magic himself out of prudish Yixing’s bedroom. They were certainly curious about him, but they didn’t pry as Jongdae sang Yixing’s praises for insisting he patch Jongdae up after being mugged outside the bar the night before. He tipped his head toward Yixing respectfully when he told them that the elder had kindly offered Jongdae his bed, opting to sleep on the couch for the night (Yixing shifted his gaze to the living room hesitantly where, by some miracle, the couch looked just as it did when he’d left it: blanket laid out and pillow propped up, a passable makeshift bed). Yixing tried to keep up, should he need to corroborate any details of this manipulated version of the past several hours, but he was simply too tired. His mind had space for only fascination and overwhelming gratitude toward Jongdae’s quick thinking and charisma.

        With any awkwardness out of the way, the four men sat comfortably and ate the colorful mess of things Baekhyun and Chanyeol had prepared. Yixing sat quietly, letting the conversation flow across the table from him. Jongdae was impossibly bright and engaging, asking thoughtful questions of Baekhyun and Chanyeol, carefully avoiding offering too much information about himself.

        It felt easy and uncomplicated, listening to Jongdae, and Yixing might have coasted through the hour cleanly had Jongdae not snuck a socked foot over toward him under the table. Yixing had just lifted his glass of water to his lips when he felt a soft but insistent touch, a flex of toes around his ankle. He immediately put the glass down, narrowly avoiding spitting all over the table. Three pairs of eyes turned to him; Baekhyun looked mildly concerned, Chanyeol arched his eyebrows in amused judgment, and Jongdae, still slipping his toes up the inside of Yixing’s leg, cocked his head just a touch, a mirthful glint in his eyes amidst an otherwise passive expression. Yixing coughed once, recovering with limited embarrassment, but he caught the tiny smirk playing on the edge of Jongdae’s lips as the conversation continued.

        As inconspicuously as he could, Yixing brought his knees together, trapping Jongdae’s invading foot, which had begun teasing further up his leg. As Chanyeol launched into another story, Yixing took the opportunity to shoot Jongdae a single, pleading look. _What are you doing?! I can’t deal with your foot near my crotch right now!_ Jongdae merely smiled and looked back at Chanyeol, though a pretty pink flush warmed his complexion as Yixing relaxed his knees to free Jongdae’s wriggling, tormenting toes. Despite his paranoia, Yixing was silently pleased Jongdae let his foot glide back down Yixing’s leg, hooking it behind his ankle, linking them in a private, hidden way for the rest of the meal.

        Once breakfast was through, Chanyeol and Baekhyun complimented Yixing on his impeccable choice of house guest, and stood to go.

        “Thanks for keeping my phone safe, hyung. Your overprotective meddling does serve its purpose sometimes. I guess Jongdae knows that now, too, doesn’t he?” Chanyeol turned to Jongdae and bowed grandly. “It has been my pleasure to meet you, kind sir. Should you continue to fraternize with this character,” he gestured dismissively to Yixing, who felt Baekhyun’s hand knead his shoulder conciliatorily, “please do consider including us in your shenanigans. Or just call us instead, since Xing Xing can be a boring hermit sometimes.” He flashed his toothy smile and held out his hand toward Baek. They walked to the door together, arms wrapped tightly around each other, and left, leaving a soundless vacuum in their wake.

        Yixing stood motionless for a beat, then turned to Jongdae, handsome, disarming Jongdae. The younger smiled sheepishly, his altered, refined image falling away to reveal a charming boy in man’s clothes. Yixing exhaled heavily, feeling both relieved they’d survived the ambush and promptly ill that he was alone with him again.

        Jongdae took a cautious step between them, Yixing matching it with a step back. He didn’t trust himself in the least, not when his own shirt was begging to be torn off Jongdae’s lean body. But Jongdae took another step, hair glinting in the window-filtered sun.

        “That went… well. Don’t you think? I’m sorry I came out, I didn’t mean to intrude, but I didn’t know how long they’d be here, and I figured I could just…” Yixing shook his head firmly, causing Jongdae’s voice and movement toward him to pause.

        “ _Please_ don’t apologize. _I’m_ sorry. I left you in there. I just panicked! They came in without any warning and I didn’t know what to do…” Yixing hung his head, disgusted with himself. “I hate that I put you in that position.” He looked up, finding Jongdae’s sincere, concerned eyes. He couldn’t help appreciating how fantastic he looked – completely different from the stylish, vibrant barfly and the vulnerable teenager fresh out of his shower. He bit his lip as he looked Jongdae up and down, holding back a smile. Jongdae blushed and dropped his head a touch, shy under Yixing’s assessment. “But I have to say… you really were brilliant though.” Jongdae beamed and closed the space between them fully.

        He wheedled his way into Yixing’s chest as before, huddling close, and propped his chin against Yixing, looking up with an adorable, childish expression. Yixing’s blood felt warm under his skin as he looped his arms around Jongdae, enjoying the sweet moment of triumph after a stressful, unpredictable morning.

        “Did I make you proud…?” Jongdae, despite his masculine, urbane ensemble, was simply a boy, searching for approval. Yixing saw it so clearly in that stolen moment, etched in the precious curves of Jongdae’s clean hairline, his straight, unmanicured eyebrows, his slim, simple nose, features he still had time to grow into.

        The question seeped inside Yixing like poison, sneaky and disguised by Jongdae’s darling lips. Did you make me proud… Yixing knew there was a word, a name that should have punctuated that question, a name they both wanted to link them permanently. He wished he could hear it again, Jongdae’s voice so sugar-sweet, claiming Yixing as his. _You made me proud, and now I only want you more for it._

        It dawned on Yixing that this whole thing was even worse than he’d really understood up until this moment. Beyond his obvious crimes, Yixing had asked Jongdae to take some responsibility for the situation with him, demanding he be complicit in Yixing’s own sin. However tempted he was, however well Jongdae played the part, he couldn’t treat Jongdae like an adult or expect him to understand why their connection was wrong. Jongdae was a boy, a pliant, sweet boy looking for a protector. But if Yixing tried to fill that role, he would rob him of his youth and of the romantic love he deserved with no reservations. He had to stop. He had to protect Jongdae from his own greed.

        Jongdae peered up at Yixing through his eyelashes, desperate for a response. Yixing smiled, pulling him tight into his body. “Of course. You saved the day.” He had to handle this carefully, limit the risk to Jongdae’s fragile innocence. _Just do what you need to do to help him move on. You cannot be anything for him. You have nothing to offer._ Unexpectedly, a harsh burn irritated Yixing’s eyes. He grimaced, tears welling behind his tired lids. _You have nothing to offer him._

        “How about I take you home now? You had a tough night, and you should recover at home.” Yixing’s voice was strong and safe in Jongdae’s ears. But a flicker of doubt crept up his neck at the suggestion.

        “I can’t stay a little longer?” Yixing resisted the parallel urges to both manhandle Jongdae by the hips, lifting him up to carry him back to his bed, and shove him away, ripping himself from the irresistible temptation of Jongdae’s request.

        “I’ve kept you here long enough. Let me take you home so you can heal.” His heart dropped coldly, hesitating over what else he needed to say. But he breathed evenly and blinked away his tears as he spoke. “You… your family is probably wondering where you are, aren’t they?” He despised the words as they left his mouth, effectively puncturing the fantasy of their sheltered world. He felt Jongdae tense in his arms.

        “I doubt it.” His voice was sharper, less pillow-light and childish. “It’s just me and my mom, and I doubt she’s even realized I’m gone.” He pressed his nose into Yixing’s neck, relishing the homey scent of his skin. “You’ve taken better care of me in a few hours than she ever has. My family… I… Yixing. You make me feel so good, I don’t want to leave. Please.”

        Ignoring the painful, wrenching twists in his chest, Yixing persevered, lightly moving Jongdae by the shoulders away from him. He leaned down to look straight into the boy’s eyes, which were slightly dewy.

        “Jongdae. I don’t want to hurt you. But I can’t be what you want me to be. I need to take you home, back to your life.” Jongdae’s bottom lip trembled. “I’ve done all I can…” He felt sick, seeing disappointment flash across Jongdae’s face at Yixing’s words, but he believed them as he said them. _I have nothing to offer you, little one._

        Yixing felt a painful ache in his fingers; he focused his eyes on his hands, still gripping his steering wheel, knuckles pale and anemic from the pressure. He recoiled his wrists away from the wheel, blood swimming into his tense joints. He glanced at his watch. Twenty-four minutes. He’d been sitting alone in his car, outside his building, for twenty-four minutes. He wiped his hands down his face, exasperated. At least he’d done the right thing in the end, though. His apartment was empty, the boy was gone.

        After half-hearted, plaintive whining, Jongdae had retreated to Yixing’s bedroom to change out of Yixing’s clothes. After a few minutes, he joined a waiting Yixing in the kitchen again, his irreparably damaged shirt and vest from the night before bundled under his arm, wearing his own ripped black jeans and the navy pullover he’d slept in.

        “Do you mind if I wear this home? I don’t think…”

        “Of course. Keep it. It looks better on you anyway.” Yixing inwardly chastised himself, though he knew he’d never have been able to wear that sweater again.

        They started on their way quietly, Yixing only asking for directions before falling silent as he drove. Jongdae led him a few miles in one direction, then instructed him to turn, then again. They’d continue on for a while, and Yixing would ask where he needed to go, and Jongdae would tell him to turn at the next street. They meandered like this for ten, fifteen, twenty minutes, doubling back on their progress. Yixing might have been irritated at the deliberate waste of time, but he was simply amused, watching Jongdae out of the corner of his eye as he tested his patience.

        They almost made their way back to Yixing’s apartment, charting a lazy, scenic course through town. Finally though, Yixing couldn’t bear to watch Jongdae point his long, suggestive fingers in his desired direction, or slide down in the passenger seat, exposing a pale patch of skin above his jeans. He reached over when they braked at a red light and fluffed Jongdae’s hair playfully.

        “Jongdae…” The boy looked over at him wearing a penitent pout.

        “Yeah, okay. It’s just three streets up and to the left.”

        Yixing made the appropriate turn and stopped the car at Jongdae’s instruction. They were parked in front of a tiny house, plain and unembellished. Jongdae averted his eyes from both his home and Yixing, staring instead at the dashboard, hesitant to move. Yixing left the engine running, willing himself to avoid dwelling on this fraught juncture. _Please, Jongdae. Please go. Go and forget me the second you close your door_.

        Jongdae slowly gathered his clothes from the floor of the car. He turned to Yixing, eyes full of tears. Without warning, he sat up and leaned forward, a little awkward in the confining space. With soft, sad lips, he kissed Yixing, just once, before hurriedly escaping the car, walking up to his front door, and disappearing inside.

        Yixing entered his own empty apartment, remembering their last moments regretfully. He closed the door behind him, and leaned against it, surveying the silent space. Unable to take a step into the lonely, familiar room just yet, he closed his eyes and mindlessly lifted his hand to his lips, pressing two fingers against his skin, imprinting the feeling of Jongdae’s chaste, lingering touch. It lasted just a second, then he forced himself to lower his hand, to open his eyes, to move forward.

        _Enough now._

He put himself to work cleaning the kitchen immaculately, then tidying the balcony and the living room. After two hours, Yixing couldn’t avoid it anymore. He sighed and walked into his bedroom. Evidence of Jongdae’s presence colored everything Yixing saw – the messy, upturned sheets, the open closet, the folded piled of the trousers, shirt, and sweater Jongdae had borrowed, and the light still on in the bathroom. Yixing walked around his bed and reached around the doorframe to flick the appropriate switch, but startled at what he found inside.

        Marked carefully across the middle of his bathroom mirror in smeared toothpaste was a phone number, globby but legible digits lined up above a signature:

        - _your little one_

\--- --- ---

        Yixing spent the next month in a semi-conscious fog. Awake, he struggled to stay focused – everything in his life seemed dimmer, grayed out somehow, now that he’d experienced a moment of pure, vivid bliss. The demands of his job, of normal life, held no interest for him. His body meandered absently for hours then days then weeks while his mind habitually escaped to his balcony, to the sun-warmed haven where he’d felt something new and rich and _right_. Oddly, he dreaded returning home after work, though he hated to leave in the mornings. Walking through his kitchen reminded him of Jongdae’s weak, fragile posture standing by the counter, leaning on Yixing’s shoulder for support, hands shaky but trusting. His bed lacked warmth without soft blond hair resting on a white pillowcase, and Yixing took to sleeping with a pillow held tight against him, sheltered protectively in his arms through the night. Each room in his apartment harbored some potent reminder of his deepest fantasy realized, precious in its preservation, but it was stained with the incriminating evidence of his vice. His home held both the honey-sweet memory of an angel and the haunting shame of sin. Like his bathroom mirror, which revealed Jongdae’s minty message every time it fogged up (Yixing resorted to taking cold showers to avoid seeing the tempting phone number, which was stored, still uncalled, in his phone). More than anything, Yixing’s apartment felt like a warzone. Yixing battled his will, his lust, constantly feeling battered and yanked between what was right in his head and what _felt_ right in his marrow. On his more masochistic days, he would cross the invisible barricade in his mind and sit on his balcony, remembering every detail of that morning with Jongdae, and let his rage and fear collide with the yearning he couldn’t shake.

        All of this he might have been able to handle if he could retreat safely into his dreams. But any barriers or shields he could maintain against genuine delirium during the day fell away when he slipped into sleep. Images, rarely connected, swarmed his unconscious mind every night, sensory and thick. Jongdae, soaked to the bone and slumped against a tiled wall, fatal wounds forming a crimson pool around him. Jongdae, curled up loosely in a ball, creamy skin hazy and just out of reach, surrounded by fluffy, white clouds. Jongdae, screaming, alone, in a dark room with no door. Jongdae, bare, beautiful legs straddling him in bed, his pretty lips hanging open obscenely in ecstasy, skinny hips rolling rhythmically around Yixing.

        Yixing woke some mornings with salty tear-tracks drying across his nose and cheeks. Other mornings, he was shivering, tense and sore, muscles contracted and cramped under stifling covers, visions of Jongdae broken and calling for him still crystalized behind his eyes. Most irritating was his new habit of waking up erect, no matter if the dream had been sexually charged or not. More than once, he had actually climaxed in his sleep, the evidence of Jongdae’s severe effect on him sullying his sheets, which made him feel sick and exhausted for the rest of the day.

        Without resolution and without an outlet, Yixing stagnated. He had dealt with heartbreak before (his first love, his adorable, wide-eyed college boyfriend, had left in the middle of the night with no explanation, no goodbye), and he had certainly managed sexual dry spells expertly for long periods – his introverted nature lent itself to remaining stalwart in the face of sexual dormancy. But this was an entirely new experience. He’d had a taste of Jongdae, a glimpse at what life could be if he let himself submit to his desires, but he knew there was no way he could. The pain, the self-doubt, and the constant guilt hacked and sliced him up from every angle, hot and urgent, but Yixing was sure that forgetting what it felt like to be Jongdae’s protector, even for a moment, would be far worse. More than once a day, he’d scroll through his contacts, highlighting Jongdae’s name, and let his thumb hover over the little call icon before tossing it away, a new wave of frustration and self-loathing breaking over his head, sending him spinning and disoriented under the current of his guilt.

        The only relief Yixing felt, he found by accident. He was on his balcony again, watching the sun rise. He had woken up sometime before dawn from a particularly jarring dream. Sweating, panting, and burdened with an achingly hard, pulsing cock, he’d given up on sleep, wandering instead out into the cold early morning darkness to clear his head. He sat, drained, looking out across the tops of his neighborhood buildings, reliving the dream in clipped, flickering images: Jongdae, wearing that damn navy sweater, climbing into Yixing’s bed; Jongdae, holding out his hands that were hacked and bloody and dripping, violent red spreading across white cotton; Jongdae, eyes desperate and huge, pleading wordlessly; Yixing, taking his precious little one in his arms, holding him up in front of him, Jongdae’s legs wrapped tightly around Yixing’s waist; Yixing, taking one of Jongdae’s abused hands in his own larger ones, bringing it to his lips, and kissing softly at the wounds, watching Jongdae sway loosely at the touch, closing his eyes in pleasure; Yixing, extending his tongue out, tracing the edges of the bruises and cuts wetly, licking the blood away to reveal healed, pink skin; Jongdae, his whimpers turning into breathy moans, tightening his grip around Yixing with his beautiful bare legs... Yixing had woken up suddenly as he dreamed he was pulling a handful of Jongdae’s golden hair back firmly, exposing his vulnerable, perfect neck, and assaulting the pale skin with possessive licks, kisses, and bites, blood and saliva slicking up toward Jongdae’s open, gasping jaw. Sitting on his balcony now, Yixing swore he could taste blood.

        The sensory images kept flashing in his head, and in his half-awake state, Yixing leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, letting the dream replay and replay and replay…

        He came hard, his voice choked and sputtering in the serene morning air, the pressure from his hand though his thick sweatpants enough to push him over the edge he’d been walking for weeks. He had been intensely afraid to touch himself at all since his infatuation with underage, unavailable Jongdae, and he’d avoided conscious masturbation as a self-imposed punishment (though his body betrayed him spectacularly with its proclivity for irresistible wet dreams). But letting his mind and body sync after resisting for so long, he gave himself permission to want Jongdae, to put his guilt aside for a few moments to just breathe, to feel pain and longing and fleeting relief. He shuddered, vibrating from the force of the crashing orgasm. Both exhausted and oddly revived, he sat back, ignoring the sticky mess in his pants for now, and let the world wake up around him, drifting in and out of peaceful, dreamless sleep.

        But his respite was short-lived. Sure enough, as Yixing went through the rest of his day, he felt the weight of his guilt dig its claws into his mind again, poisoning the morning’s sweet release. _So you get off to blood now, is that where we are? You are fucking fucked, seriously._ But he couldn’t shake the images of Jongdae’s shining, wet hands, his sexy, flawless legs coiled around him. He got so worked up thinking about the dream, chastising himself for coming to such disturbing visions, wondering what sort of monster would fantasize about a seventeen-year-old bleeding in his bed, he made himself nauseous. At one point, he felt so awful he had to excuse himself abruptly from a video conference call with a Japanese affiliate to escape to the restroom. He hunched over the toilet, heaving, trying to expel whatever demon had taken control of him. Sweat beaded on his forehead and his vision blurred slightly, but nothing came up. He leaned back against the door of the stall, spent. _This isn’t working. I need a plan, or this kid is going to kill me._

\--- --- ---

        Three weeks after Yixing woke up with a beautiful boy in his bed, every day and night since infected by self-imposed torture, Yixing decided to try something drastic. He couldn’t live like this anymore, feeling self-hatred and confusion and worry and _regret_ over losing something, someone, so good. He had to break this cycle.

        Yixing had been on two blind dates before. His sophomore year of college, his sister had encouraged him to spend an afternoon with one of her school friends, an unassuming girl with skinny legs and an unfortunate overbite; the date had gone smoothly, though Yixing found himself more interested in their tall, moody-looking waiter with the rainbow-flecked hair than his date. A couple of years later, Chanyeol had begged him to join him and his new crush on a double date. Yixing had promptly agreed, shocked at Chanyeol’s uncharacteristic self-doubt over a cute boy, though he had little hope for his own luck with his date, the dubious, unnamed roommate of Chanyeol’s crush. They decided to meet up for a movie. Introducing each other on the steps outside the theater, Chanyeol beamed enthusiastically when he spoke Baekhyun’s name to Yixing for the first time, but Yixing had been almost too distracted to hear it. Baekhyun’s roommate was _gorgeous_ , lean and graceful, with a set of absurdly pouty lips he repeatedly licked, eyes cool and seductive under shiny brown fringe. While Baek and Chanyeol were hitting it off before the movie started, flirting innocently over a shared soda, Jongin had leaned over to Yixing, angling his swollen-looking lips up to Yixing’s ear, sending chills down his arms. Unfortunately, Jongin’s whispers were not teasing words for Yixing’s enjoyment, but rather a heads up that he was dating someone, an older guy named Kyungsoo. Apparently, Baekhyun had dragged him along to ease his nerves over Chanyeol, and though he was sure Yixing was a nice guy, Jongin wouldn’t want to lead him on since he was taken. Yixing couldn’t help laughing at the situation, but he hid it from Chanyeol the best he could, reluctant to spoil what was clearly an important night for him. So he and Jongin had watched the movie intently while their friends held hands and murmured into each other’s ears, infatuation growing in the darkness of the theater.

        So, his track record wasn't stellar, but Yixing hoped maybe going out on a date would wake him up; he needed a distraction, a disruption to this draining, insular obsession. So after three weeks of dodging Chanyeol's weekly Friday night excursions (Yixing couldn't stomach Chanyeol and Baekhyun's inseparable affection in the weeks following his night with Jongdae, plus, he still worried they would ask about the unexpected guy hiding in his bedroom, a subject about which Yixing didn't have coherent thoughts even for himself yet), Yixing met up with them at a mellow restaurant for dinner.

        “You know, hyung, I’m glad you called.” Chanyeol was leaning toward Yixing over the table, pointy elbow pressed into the wood grain, mock despondency replacing his typical goofy grin. “I thought maybe you had a problem with Baek and I getting back together or something.”

        “Of course not! No, I love Baek.” Chanyeol smiled satisfied. “It’s you I have a problem with,” Yixing deadpanned. Chanyeol glared at his friend, then his boyfriend, who was snickering beside him.

        They chatted for a while, catching up. Yixing apologized for withdrawing for the past few weeks, offering some vague, false excuse about work, how tired he was lately. Chanyeol and Baekhyun seemed mollified, but as they continued talking through dinner, Yixing picked up on some reluctance from the pair; their looks were more knowing than usual, their pauses more weighty. He had a sneaking suspicion he knew what they wanted to ask him about. He’d been putting this conversation off intentionally, but now that it was looming in front of him, inescapable, he suddenly wanted to rip the bandaid off, to unburden himself so they could all move on and Yixing would be free to reveal his own hidden agenda.

        After ordering a second bottle of Riesling, Yixing sat back in his chair and folded his arms at his chest. He pulled a blank stare, eyeing the colluding couple across the table from him incredulously. They both paused, Chanyeol’s eyes widening in confusion, Baekhyun looking to Chanyeol for prompting.

        “Hyung?” Yixing screwed up his chin at Chanyeol, pouting out his bottom lip, waiting.

        “You two want to ask me something. Or say something.” He smoothed his hair with his hand, doing his best to look impatient, and flicked his eyebrows up once tauntingly. “Don’t you? You’ve been using your code all night. So what is it?” Baekhyun’s round features flexed into an innocent look, but a grin had already started to sneak across Chanyeol’s face. He looked at his boyfriend and shrugged.

        “We weren’t terribly subtle, were we?” Baekhyun sighed, dropping the feigned naiveté.

        “You’re incorrigible,” he said under his breath, but he grabbed Chanyeol’s hand under the table all the same and turned fully to Yixing again, his eyes brightened and the edges of his mouth turned up in expectation.

        “Xing-hyung… I’m just dying to ask you about Jongdae!” Yixing’s breath hitched involuntarily at the name; Baekhyun didn’t seem to notice. “What happened there? Have you seen him since that morning? Is the real reason why you’ve been avoiding us? I hope so. He’s SO cute!”

        “Really Baek… you’re drooling.” Chanyeol rolled his eyes affectionately.

        “Shut up.” Baek shot Chanyeol a dismissive look. “You said just last night that you wanted to have a threesome with him if Yixing didn’t call dibs.” Chanyeol blushed up to his prominent ears and lowered his head, properly chastised. Baek angled back to Yixing, a covert playfulness in the corners of his eyes. “So… are you guys a thing or what?”

        “No!” Baekhyun raised his eyebrows at Yixing’s too loud, too quick answer. He had been prepared for this line of questioning, but he was still wound a little tight. He tried to recover, forcing his posture to relax. “No, I just happened to be in the right place at the right time. Nothing happened or anything, I haven’t even seen him since that morning.” His voice was still hurried, and he was running out of things to say. “He’s not really my type anyway.” As soon as the words left his mouth, he winced, wishing he could swipe them out of the air and shove them back inside. _Wow, Yixing. That’s not even a little believable._

        “Really?” Baekhyun tipped his head to the side, surveying Yixing quizzically. “I thought you two looked awfully cute together.” Chanyeol nodded emphatically in agreement.

        “Yeah, well, it’s nothing, so…” Yixing’s heart was skipping uncomfortably. He had to keep going. “Actually, I wanted to ask you guys something sort of related to that.” Baek leaned in conspiratorially, squeezing Chanyeol’s hand once. “You always give me so much shit about not dating, but you know how I am.” Chanyeol nodded again. Yixing garnered his tattered, bruised pride and soldiered on. “So I’m asking for your help. If you know anyone you think I’d get along with, I think I’d…”

        “Oh my GOD, Zhang Yixing, are you asking us to set you up?!” Chanyeol’s smile was wider than usual, puppy-eyes glinting excitedly.

        Thankfully, the rest of dinner’s conversation revolved around Chanyeol and Baekhyun setting their lineup of eligible options for their sad, lonely, desperate Yixing. He might have been irritated by their blatant insults, but he was just relieved they had moved past Jongdae without much interrogation.

        After lengthy deliberation, it was decided that Yixing would go out with Chanyeol’s most promising single friend, which is how Yixing found himself parked outside a trendy wine bar downtown four days later. His pulse raced as he adjusted his rolled cuffs and sleek, undercut hair, a style Baekhyun had recommended to compliment his masculine, angular bone structure. He couldn't pin down exactly what was making him so nervous. He desperately wanted to think about someone other than Jongdae (just the night before he’d thoughtlessly stroked himself to orgasm in the shower, remembering Jongdae’s glistening, wet skin backlit and perfectly framed in his bathroom doorway), so while Chanyeol's acquaintance could very well turn out to be a decent guy, it didn’t actually matter. Even if he were a total wank, Yixing was grateful to escape the torture of Jongdae’s ghost for an evening. But still, a ribbon of anxiety threaded through his mind as he took a deep breath and walked up the sidewalk toward the front of the bar.

        As he approached, hands stuffed into his pockets to limit their fidgeting, he recounted how Chanyeol had described the man he was going to meet. They met at the gym; Chanyeol had been impressed by the shorter man's stamina on the bike next to his. They had struck up a conversation during their parallel cool down, and they ended up meeting every day that week to work out in tandem, encouraging and challenging each other through sets. Chanyeol insisted that he was a worthy candidate for Yixing’s affections, siting his easygoing personality and phenomenal ass as particularly strong selling points.

        A few yards from the building, Yixing noticed a distinctive figure leaning against the brick wall outside. He was shorter than Yixing just at a glance, but he looked solid, his square shoulders filling out a biker-style jacket. He had a nonchalant, unassuming stance, but still singularly compelling; Yixing was reminded of old movie stars he and Chanyeol had idolized as teens. Even at this distance, the man read graceful, strong, steady. He lifted his head from the glow of his phone casually when Yixing paused beside him, eyes feline and arresting. Yixing, nervous electricity skipping through his body, perked up one side of his mouth.

        “Minseok?”

        His date returned the smile, standing up fully from his lax posture against the wall. Under his black leather, Minseok’s thin gray shirt draped and creased across faintly detectable pectoral muscles, evidence of his extensive work at the gym. Yixing didn’t typically respond to buff, athletic men, but Minseok wore it well, particularly paired with his small features and smooth, compact movements. Yixing thought of his best friend, the laughable opposite to the man standing before him now. He pictured Chanyeol, all gangly and uncoordinated, working out next to powerful, refined Minseok, and he tried to suppress a laugh as the two exchanged pleasantries.

        “And you’re Yixing. Good to meet you,” Minseok said plainly, sliding his phone into his back pocket and extending his hand toward Yixing. It was a firm, straightforward handshake; Yixing exhaled, relieved. _Maybe Chanyeol took this seriously._ He silently thanked his friend as Minseok flicked his eyes toward the door, leading Yixing inside.

        They were directed to a table by a window toward the back of the bar, the environment warm and secluded. Yixing pulled out his chair to sit, but faltered as Minseok laid his jacket on the back of his own chair. Chanyeol had alluded to Minseok’s impressive build, but Yixing’s eyes conspicuously widened as he watched the leather slip down Minseok’s sharply defined arms, catching at slim wrists. He quickly sat down, trying not to stare at the equally refined and bulky muscles, but he was struck again as a whisper of Minseok’s cologne, freed from under his jacket, wafted across the table. It was a curious, unique scent: neat and masculine, and distinctly cold, like the gray, static air after a heavy snow. Yixing’s expressive lips parted instinctively, as if to absorb more of the inviting, chilly scent. _Shit, he’s hot._ The nervous energy buzzing in his ears surged down his neck as he indulgently observed Minseok further. He’d never seen someone quite like him; he had small ears and hands, a thin, sharply angled top lip above a more rounded, protruding bottom lip, and naturally arched eyebrows. These more delicate, cat-like features paired unusually with his obviously ripped physique, but they somehow complimented each other. Yixing’s eyes passed over Minseok’s taut forearms again as they rested on the edge of the table, then wandered up toward his eyes, which were perusing the wine list. _Such dark eyelashes…_ Yixing appreciated them for a second before Minseok’s eyes flicked up, catching Yixing’s unfiltered staring. Yixing blinked hurriedly, averting his gaze, but Minseok chuckled pleasantly.

        “Chanyeol warned me you were a little awkward…” Yixing snapped his head up, rosy embarrassment coloring his cheeks. “But… I don’t think that’s quite right.” Minseok was still motionless, his face angled down toward the table, eyes peering up flirtatiously through his lashes at a flustered Yixing. _Jesus, Yixing, pull yourself together._ But he couldn’t help watching Minseok’s pale lips as he spoke. He felt rusty, boyish and clumsy in this environment. He hadn’t been on a legitimate date for a while, and he had certainly never sat across the table from someone as uncommonly sexy as Minseok. Perhaps he should give himself some slack. He laughed to himself and looked back at Minseok, whose eyes seemed to be toying with him deliberately from their teasing angle.

        “No? What do you think then?” Yixing prompted.

        “I think you’re cute.” Yixing blushed again, though he held Minseok’s gaze.

        “Likewise. I think I may owe Chanyeol after tonight.”

        “We’ll see. I’m feeling pretty optimistic myself.” They both smiled as their server walked up to take their drink orders.

        The conversation flowed easily between the two, even if Yixing felt himself floundering under Minseok’s unabashed attention. As they made their way through dinner, Yixing got the sense that Minseok didn’t entirely understand how attractive he really was; there wasn’t a hint of arrogance in his demeanor at all. Instead, he was humble, uncomplicated, and more than a little self-deprecating. They discussed their careers (Minseok owned a combination bookstore and coffee shop a few streets over), music, novels, food. Minseok was quick to laugh, not boisterously like Chanyeol, but intimately, attentive to Yixing’s own reaction. Cautiously, Yixing began to give more of himself, letting his month-long purgatory minimize to the back of his mind. He found himself fascinated by his date, and he let his eyes revel in Minseok’s gestures, angles, and details. More than once, he had to stop himself from reaching across the table to touch him – the sunken valley under his cheekbone, the razor-sharp point of his eyebrow, the glorious dip between his barely visible collarbones. But Yixing behaved outwardly, only letting his eyes betray his innate interest.

        After they’d eaten their fill, both men relaxed and coolly sipping the last of their drinks, Minseok looked at his watch, then at Yixing.

        “It’s still early. You want to… take a walk maybe?” Yixing felt a fizzy thrill slip up his throat. _We’ve gotten this far. Don’t blow this by being overeager._

        “Sure,” he mused, setting his glass down, affecting a breezy attitude. “Why not?” Minseok laughed again, enjoying Yixing’s effort to keep his ill-disguised enthusiasm under wraps.

        Minseok paid the tab (“my neighborhood, my treat”), and they stepped out onto the lamp-lit street. Yixing, buzzed from the wine, caught a glimpse of Minseok from behind as he turned to start up the sidewalk. Chanyeol, the dear friend that he was, hadn’t been exaggerating: Minseok had a great ass. But mild inebriation had slowed Yixing’s reflexes and dimmed his inhibitions; again, Minseok caught him staring.

        “You like what you see?” Minseok cheekily arched his back just enough that his jacket shifted up, revealing more of his tight, defined butt. But his overt flirtation only lasted a second, and as Yixing was still trying to memorize the curve from back to butt to legs, Minseok was grabbing his hand, whisking him around a corner.They walked together comfortably for a minute, Minseok pointing out various favorite landmarks. His arm cut across Yixing to gesture at his preferred grocer, and as he lowered it, he took Yixing’s hand in his own. His steps altered slightly, trimming the space between their bodies as they continued up the street, and he guided Yixing’s arm around his waist, boldly placing Yixing’s hand on the back pocket of his jeans. Yixing swallowed, but allowed the alcohol to blur his hesitation. He tucked his fingers inside the pocket, squeezing Minseok’s pert ass through denim, earning him a scandalized chirp from Minseok.

        They walked like that for another block or two, their voices low and leisurely, until Minseok stopped in front of a dark storefront. Yixing let his hand wander up from Minseok’s back pocket to the small of his back, confidently sneaking under the supple edge of the leather jacket, as he looked in the direction of Minseok’s attention. The façade was modern, clean, all brushed silver and dark wood. Yixing recognized the dual content behind the sleek glass windows – books, beautifully organized in linear shelves, and small café-style tables. He blinked, understanding where they were, and looked down at Minseok. His date’s face was bright, a smile puffing up his cheeks as he ran a hand through his choppy hair.

        “So this is my place. You want to see inside?”

        “Absolutely.” A supremely pleasant warmth flooded through Yixing as they walked up the steps together, Minseok fiddling with his keys to unlock the front door.

        As they stepped inside, Minseok flipped a switch, inviting light illuminating the sophisticated, trendy interior. Yixing stood just inside the door, taking it all in, impressed by how much the space resembled Minseok’s own personality. Minseok dropped his jacket and keys on the granite counter, then turned back to observe Yixing’s reaction to his establishment.

        “So… what do you think?” Yixing exhaled, satisfied, as Minseok took slow steps toward him.

        “It’s perfect. And it really feels like you.” Yixing vaguely wondered at his own voice, which sounded more confident and suave than he felt. _Thank God for wine._

        “Does it?” Minseok was four, three, two feet away from Yixing, approaching him with the same cool quality Yixing saw even before they were introduced. “You think you know me well enough to say that?” He stood facing Yixing, commanding and calm from top to bottom.

        “Mm… I mean…”

        “Relax. I just mean there’s more of me you haven’t seen yet.” Minseok’s sharp eyes blatantly assessed Yixing up and down; Yixing felt vulnerable and naked under his gaze, though not unpleasantly so. He dropped his head, a shy habit of his, but Minseok’s hand caught his chin, tipping it to the right angle for their lips to meet, soft and exploratory. Minseok dictated the pace as Yixing caught up, his introverted, inebriated mind a little slow to reciprocate. Minseok’s hands pressed into Yixing’s chest, fingertips hungry for Yixing’s long, slim body. They kissed smoothly, lips playing against each other, and Yixing’s heart thumped in his ears.

        Minseok dragged his hands up behind Yixing’s neck, fingers lacing with his hair, thumbs tilting Yixing’s head at a sharper angle as his tongue slipped between Yixing’s lips. Yixing inhaled sharply at the touch, then submitted to the delicious wetness. _Jesus… he tastes better than he smells._ The hypnotizing pull of Minseok’s hands on his neck, warming his skin with skilled fingers, paired with the rhythmic, easy pace of Minseok’s tongue and lips on his own left Yixing panting. His pent up sexual desires seemed to be pounding from behind a door, shaking Yixing’s bones with their insistence. He brought his hands to the small of Minseok’s back again, pulling his hips closer, the pair pressed against the glass front door.

        Minseok groaned lowly, his gravelly, hot voice spurring Yixing’s pulse, but he broke the kiss short, leaving Yixing’s bottom lip swollen and slick. His eyes were fiery as he locked on Yixing, watching him breathe heavily with lust. His eyes narrowed and he took a handful of Yixing’s shirt in his hand, pulling him away from the door toward the back wall of the store, aiming for a less public spot. He spun Yixing around by the shirt, pushing him against rough, whitewashed brick.

        Their mouths met hungrily again, Yixing holding Minseok’s small face in his hands, toying with his hair. Minseok’s own hands were busy untucking Yixing’s shirt then running them across his taut ab muscles. Yixing shivered under his touch and Minseok chuckled into their increasingly urgent kiss. He again pulled away from Yixing’s lips, eliciting a plaintive, strangled whine from Yixing.

        “You are a little uptight, aren’t you?”

        “Huh?” Yixing raised his eyebrows, confused. Minseok continued feeling his way all over Yixing’s torso under his shirt, thumbs gliding just once over his nipples. Yixing closed his eyes and felt a familiar heat radiating from his pelvis.

        “Chanyeol told me you were… in a funk. That’s how he put it. Would you agree?” Yixing’s focus was split between Minseok’s question and the press of his zipper against his hardening cock. _In a funk? What the fuck, Chanyeol, you little shit._

        “I… yeah. I guess so. I…” His voice died behind his teeth as Minseok’s hands traveled down to Yixing’s belt, unhooking the metal and leather.

        “Yeah, I thought so. Look, Yixing.” Their eyes met again, Minseok’s practically predatory on Yixing’s. “You’re dealing with some shit… and maybe I can fix it.” He blinked expectantly, but his hands kept their pace, letting the undone belt hang loosely as they went to work on Yixing’s pants. Before Yixing could form even the beginnings of a response, Minseok grinned deviously and lowered himself to his knees. Yixing watched as Minseok pulled the waist of his pants and briefs down in a slow, teasing drag, his face just a breath away from his crotch. The stifling layers gathered around his ankles, leaving him exposed and fully at Minseok’s mercy. His dick was throbbing, curving up slightly, urgent and desperate. Minseok’s petite features looked even smaller at this angle, particularly in comparison to Yixing’s thick cock, which Minseok was eyeing with a self-assured thirst. Yixing took shallow breaths, mind emptied and fuzzy.

        Minseok smiled up at Yixing, running his hands back up his legs smoothly, grabbing at Yixing’s ass with playful fingers. His teasing pink tongue poked out of his small, round lips, and he licked stripes up and down the length of Yixing’s cock, grinning at the visible pulsing reaction under the stretched skin. He hummed, pressing his lips to the needy, precum-slick head. Yixing moaned, bringing his hands to his face. He wasn’t prepared for this _at all_.

        But Minseok, still watching Yixing’s reactions, used his hands to manipulate Yixing’s hips, tilting them in rhythm as he took the tip of his cock in his mouth. Yixing moaned again, thinner this time, gripping his own hair. He felt Minseok’s tongue trace his cockhead slowly, the sensitive skin singing with each fluid slide in and out of Minseok’s mouth. With each controlled thrust, Minseok took more of Yixing inside, his ample, slippery spit eliciting lewd sounds that set Yixing’s brain on fire with lust.

        “Unh… _fuck_. Minseok…” Yixing’s eyes were closed, hands still entangled in his hair, as Minseok coaxed him to his full length. Minseok mumbled around Yixing’s spit-slicked dick, vibrating around his skin devilishly. One of his hands left Yixing’s hip and gripped the base of Yixing’s cock, spreading the precum and saliva along the full, obscene shaft in rhythm. Satisfied with his progress, Minseok pulled his mouth away with a pop and continued to languidly stroke Yixing with his hand.

        “You want to come, Yixing? You want me to make you come right here?” Yixing panted and whined, but he looked down, trying to form words unsuccessfully. Without warning, Minseok moved his hand back down to the base and wrapped his lips around Yixing’s intensely swollen head again, the humid heat of his mouth almost unbearable on Yixing’s sensitive nerves. He steadily sucked more, more of Yixing’s cock, in and out, sliding his lips down toward his aching pelvis. Yixing felt the tip touch the back of Minseok’s throat, rubbing against the wall obscenely, then slip _further_ , until Minseok was entirely full. Yixing’s breathing hitched, and he looked down. Minseok angled his gorgeous, half-lidded eyes up, mouth impossibly stretched around Yixing’s rapt, begging cock, and _Yixing couldn’t breathe._

        Minseok’s beautifully fucked face below him morphed in his vision, replaced by a golden-haired angel, pliant and docile under his protection, cheeks hollow from dutiful, delicious suction, a trail of spit slipping down his chin, warm brown eyes watering at the burn in his throat. And in his ears, Yixing heard his voice, high and clear.

        _“Please… that feels so good, daddy.”_

Minseok bobbed his head around Yixing’s cock, but he was surprised when it was mere seconds for him to feel the powerful flexing in Yixing’s dick, hear the choked moan above him, and taste slick bitterness on his tongue. He pulled his lips back, swallowing Yixing’s leaking come, letting his hand stroke Yixing lightly through the tremors of his orgasm. But Yixing was shifting away from him quickly, almost climbing up the wall, trying to escape Minseok’s skilled touch. Minseok sat back on his heels, confused, watching Yixing as he stood back pressed tight against the wall, shaking.

       _I’ve got to get out of here._

_I’ve got to get the fuck out of here. Now._

        Yixing and Minseok looked at each other for a long moment; Yixing hoped the apology he was unable to voice would translate through his desperate expression. He hastily yanked his briefs and pants back up, painfully stuffing his still-hard cock behind the confining material, leaving his belt unfastened and his shirt untucked, already moving toward the door. Minseok barely had time to stand and wipe off his mouth with the back of his hand before Yixing had his hand on the front door handle. He paused and angled his head back, avoiding Minseok’s narrowed, shocked eyes.

        “I… I wish you could fix… whatever’s wrong with me. _Fuck._ I really wish you could.” He felt an urgent sting behind his eyes, and he pushed through the front door before Minseok could see hot tears escaping down his cheeks.

        Yixing took off running the way they’d come, thoughts scrambling violently, tears blurring his vision. The cool, wet night air cut through him as he lengthened his strides, running full tilt through the unfamiliar neighborhood. His shoes clipped against the paved sidewalk, the predictable rhythm filling his ears. His breathing was still thick and uneven, so he sped up, sprinting up a hill, forcing his breath to match his strides. His heart felt like it might rip out of his chest, but he kept going, rounding a corner, nearing his car. Finally, he slowed, arms flailing limply as he stopped, breath shaking out in gulps. He stood doubled over next to his car, eyes stinging, hands gripping his knees, as a sharp pain hovered around his navel. It might have been a cramp from the unplanned run, but it only got worse as Yixing’s body recovered. With nowhere else to run, Yixing got into his car and slumped against the steering wheel.

       _I can’t get rid of him._

        Tears dripped onto the fabric of his pants, bleeding together. He felt sick, exhausted, drained. He’d come so hard and so fast, as if it had been exorcised from him. His skin was raw and unstable, and a thin layer of sweat mingled with his tears, despite the chill outside. He felt like absolute garbage, but none of it compared to the havoc in his head.

    _I’m sick. I can’t get him out of my head._

        And as a fresh wave of tears flooded him, he jammed his eyes closed, shutting out the world and seeing only Jongdae, perfect and wrong and essential.

        Yixing’s breath heaved out of him as he turned on his car. He clumsily drove through the darkened downtown streets, heading for the highway. He opened his windows fully, letting the cold air dry his burning cheeks, doing his best to regulate his breathing.

        He drove for miles, following the coast, feeling the gut-punch of every obvious and unanswerable question anew. What the fuck was he supposed to do? Because among the rage of regrets and demands and red flags, he was sure of only one thing.

        He would rather die tomorrow than live the rest of his days without Jongdae.


	4. Chapter 4

        Yixing felt supremely uncomfortable. He had walked in from his drive up the coast a quarter of an hour ago, and any relief the cold open air had encouraged had dissipated now that he was back in his bed, sitting cross-legged, staring through the open door to his consecrated bathroom mirror. The mix of tears and sweat coating his temples, cheeks, neck, and chest were tacky now, air-dried mostly from the sticky night air rushing through his car windows; Yixing felt like he was covered in cling-wrap. His appearance was no better – his hair was a rakish mess from Minseok’s wandering hands, and he’d never bothered to fix his shirt or his belt. His legs and feet stung vaguely from running in his lace-up leather dress shoes, and his groin was every shade of fucked up, spanning the spectrum from intensely satisfied by Minseok’s masterful deep-throating skills to utterly baffled over the unprompted vision of Jongdae spiriting in Minseok’s place. The lengthy drive had taken the edge off the prickly, confused ache in his core, but the mental image of Jongdae’s elongated, lax expression as he swallowed Yixing whole was even more vivid now.

        Yixing needed a shower desperately. But not until he got some answers.

        He thumbed his phone to life, flicked through his contacts to the familiar number, took a deep breath, and dialed.

        “Hyung? Hey, man, it’s pretty late… are you still with Minseok? That’s bad form, hyung, you shouldn’t call your best friend when your –”

        “Chanyeol, what the _fuck_ did you tell Minseok about me?” A short pause, then scuffling. Yixing heard indecipherable whispering through the phone. “Chanyeol, I’m not fucking around right now. Baek can’t bail you out. What did you tell him?” Yixing’s ankles twinged underneath him, cramped in this awkward position, but he remained unmoved, focused on prying the inevitably embarrassing truth from Chanyeol.

        “Uh, well… see, when you asked us to set you up on a blind, we sort of thought… well, we thought maybe we should really capitalize on the situation. Like… you haven’t really been yourself lately, and I just figured you needed to get back on the horse, so to speak, and…”      

        “Back… on _what_ horse?"

        “…”

        “ _Chanyeol_.” Yixing’s fingers tightened around his phone as he gritted his teeth.

        “You need to get laid, hyung! You’re like… the most sexually frustrated person I know, and I just thought you were sort of hinting at maybe wanting a little help in that department, so I thought a sure thing might… I don’t know… fuck you back to normal!”

        Yixing pulled the phone away from his ear, eyes closed. He had to admit, in a weird Chanyeol-logic, ass-backwards sort of way, that made sense. He had essentially had the same idea when he’d made the request, though he had not exactly signed up for spontaneous, coffee shop/bookstore head from Chanyeol’s hot gym bro. But thinking about it now, Yixing began to seriously question if it really was spontaneous. An acidic burn climbed up his throat as he brought the phone back up to his ear.

        “So… you told this guy I needed to get laid? Do you even know him, or was he like… _an escort_ or something?” Yixing felt stupid saying the word out loud, and he sincerely hoped he was way off base. The panicky heat in his neck cooled instantly when he heard Chanyeol’s exasperated, barking laugh on the end of the conversation.

        “What the _fuck_ , Yixing, no, I didn’t pay someone to suck you off. No.”

        “Thank God…” Yixing felt his feet tingle, realizing they were totally numb, asleep under his weight. He leaned back, sprawling on his bed to stretch his achy legs, when another thought occurred to him. “So, then… how did you know he… sucked me off.” Another pause.

      “Look hyung, I did meet him at the gym, he’s not an escort or anything, he’s a regular dude. I just tried to think of someone who would be, I don’t know, an easy win for you or something.”

        “So he’s a slut?”

        “Nah, I mean, I don’t know, he doesn’t seem like it… though he did offer to blow me in the gym locker room. That’s sort of what gave me the idea.”

        Yixing groaned at the admission, though he was still relieved he hadn’t been set up with a professional. That would add a whole new layer of perversion to his sexual circus. He lifted his hand to his face, rubbing small circles into either side of his nose bridge, trying to ease the thumping headache forming behind his eyes.

        “Fantastic. Well, you were right. He was certainly… skilled.” Chanyeol snorted into the phone before relaying the message to Baekhyun.

        “So, are you going to see him again, or do I have to find a new lifting partner?”

        “Well, Yeollie, considering I came in his mouth and then promptly ran out of there with my dick still hard, no I don’t think seeing him again is very likely.”

        “…”

        “Yeah, it wasn’t my best performance.”

        “Jesus, hyung. What the fuck is going on?” Chanyeol’s voice didn’t sound amused and mocking like Yixing had expected. Instead, it was low, deliberate. He sounded concerned, which both irritated and comforted Yixing as he pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead.

        “Honestly? I don’t know. I’m a wreck, and I don’t know how to fix it.” Yixing heard Baekhyun and Chanyeol talking distantly again, and he sighed. “Speaker phone,” he mumbled, acquiescent to the package deal that was Baekyeol.

        “Yeah, okay…” A few seconds later, the tone in Yixing’s ear changed, sounding more hollow.

        “Hey, Xing Xing. So what’s going on?” Baekhyun’s voice joined Chanyeol’s. With these two people listening, asking him to trust them, Yixing let his brain vomit out all the guilt and fear and pain and passion he’d been fighting for weeks, leaving nothing out apart from his tactful reservation of Jongdae’s explicit age. The exploits from earlier that evening notwithstanding, Yixing was reluctant to give up the last pathetic shred of pride he had left.

        “I knew it!” Yixing had been silent for a minute or two, letting the pair process his haphazard, private narration when Baekhyun’s voice piped up. Yixing chuckled.

        “So when we came over that morning, and he was there…” Chanyeol seemed to still be working through the finer points, while Baekhyun continued.

        “So, he’s young. Okay. I mean, is it a problem? If you’re this wrecked over him, maybe it’s worth it to give it a shot.” Yixing sighed heavily. _Well, why not keep going at this point…_

        “He’s too young. Like… _young_ young.”

        “Yixing…”

        “He told me he’s seventeen.”

        “Ouch."

        “Exactly. This is why I’m so fucked.”

        “Right…” Yixing could practically hear Baekhyun and Chanyeol making faces at each other over the phone. “So, is this just about sex, do you think? Like, if Minseok had called you daddy…”

        “Shut up. No, definitely not. No, no.”

        “Okay, so is it that you want a younger guy then?”

        “I don’t think so.”

        “Xing?” Chanyeol spoke carefully, almost hesitant. “Do you love him?”

\--- --- ---

        It had been two days, and Yixing still couldn’t answer the question. Every rational synapse in his brain protested vehemently against the thought. It was a ridiculous question, and he had felt a twinge of irritation that Chanyeol had felt it necessary to pose it. And yet, when he had denied harboring some attachment to Jongdae over the phone, too quick and too brashly assured to convince anyone, Yixing’s heart had immediately stung, revolted. He had ended the call quickly, desperate to bleach the erratic night from his mind in sleep. Surely, he was just confused, tired. He didn’t have any right to feel anything beyond fondness for the boy, and something as rich and distant as love was laughable. How could he? How could he possibly have fallen for Jongdae?

        Still, in the hours following the cathartic conversation with his best friends, his mind contorted against the denial. Beneath the thick fog of logic and restraint, behind the locked door of his heart, doubt crackled and flickered like fire, singeing his resolve. _Do you love him? I can’t…_

        Yixing hadn’t eaten since the day before, reveling in the mild self-abuse of empty, aching hunger. He’d coasted through work, grateful for the opportunity to focus on something that made some fucking sense, but he couldn’t deny the parallel hollowness in his chest that had been growing every minute since his misadventure with Minseok. He thought about that ill-fated evening frequently, though only to remind him of its effectiveness in shoving him enthusiastically off a cliff. He indeed felt like he was in freefall, and he feared what waited for him at the bottom of this pit.

        He paced in his confining apartment, bare feet marking patterns across the floor of his kitchen. He might have gone out on his balcony, but it was raining heavily, fat and furious clouds shifting across a roiling, asphalt sky. Smacking sheets of the stuff pounded the glass door, taunting him.

        _Just call him. You’re going to drive yourself crazy if you don’t._

The thought had been circulating through his head for most of the day, to no avail. His phone sat accusingly on the counter, both the lock around his misery and the key to free it. Lightening strobed strange angles of light around the room.

        _Call him. Call Jongdae._

        And then the phone was in his hand, his fingers tracing the well-worn pattern to his number. The screen blinked as the phone did its work, and Yixing held his breath as he brought it to his ear.

        A long tone. Another. Another.       

        Yixing’s throat seized at hearing Jongdae’s voice; it sounded even more beautiful than he had dared remember, even through his voicemail message. But it was over too soon, followed by an abrasive beep.

        “…Jongdae.” A thousand iterations of what he might say darted in and out of Yixing’s head, none of them the least bit helpful. In his panic, his brain shut down, and he spoke from his hurting, needy, yearning core. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I haven’t called before now… and _I’m sorry I’m calling now_ … but I… I want to see you. _Fuck, Jongdae, I really need to see you_.”

        The hot lump forming in his throat suffocated his voice and he pulled the phone away to end the call, but his anger flared as he read Jongdae’s name above the timer, tracking the length of the message. He snapped, hating his weakness, and whipped his arm around, violent and impulsive, throwing the phone into the kitchen, its metallic cracking contact with the fridge resonating loudly through the apartment. A scream, primal and pure, ripped out of him through gritted teeth. His heart careened in his chest from hearing Jongdae’s sweet voice again, from the lit match of hope making that call had struck, and from his _disgusting_ lack of control. Because not one thing had changed; how could he put himself, and far worse, Jongdae, in this situation again? It couldn’t possibly be worth the trauma that was sure to come.       

        He squeezed his eyes shut, shaking as he dropped to his knees, fists raking against his temples. _What the fuck have I done?_

        The rain continued to fall, shrouding the apartment in a bleak gray cast. The percussive rhythm against Yixing’s windows beat incessantly, thumping and pinging in Yixing’s head. Cold, bitter, desperate, he slid backward to lean against his kitchen island. With his legs sprawled out in front of him, he faced the sliding door to his balcony, watching the streams and rivulets create ever-changing art behind the glass, unmoving. He might have cried, might have shuddered out a sob, might have whispered Jongdae’s name to the empty room over and over and over, but his mind was so blank, so overloaded, that he couldn’t honestly recall, thinking about it later. The rain was unyielding, drowning out his thoughts, his breath, and the practically audible knocking of his heartbeat, strained from sorrow. Knock, knock, _knock_.

        Yixing’s eyes came back into focus. The knocking was not inside him, but behind him, from his front door. He stood clumsily, frantically, an electric surge quickening his pulse. An acidic pairing of panic and giddy hope clashed in his veins as he approached the door. His hand went to the knob and paused. He placed his other hand against the doorframe for support, legitimately concerned about staying fully upright. Because there it was again, just inches away from him - the quiet but insistent rapping of knuckles.

        His heart leapt up in his chest, and he opened the door, hope winning out.

        And there he was.       

        Yixing’s spine locked at the sight – Jongdae stood, entirely drenched and dripping, his thin nylon windbreaker plastered to his frame, his hair (longer than it was last he saw him) wavy and dark with rain against his forehead, black eyelashes clumped together, waiting on his doorstep. He looked up, his gaze wandering from the floor to Yixing’s feet, legs, and up his torso, lingering for a moment on Yixing’s angular shoulders, up his neck, settling on his eyes, wide and serious and unbelieving. Jongdae quivered, soaked to the bone from the downpour, but he stayed stationary in the hall, unsure and hesitant in the face of the man for whom he’d been desperate for weeks. A second’s pause, one breathless moment, before Yixing opened the door wide and stepped out to meet Jongdae, taking the younger’s damp, pale face in his strong hands.

        “You came.” Yixing’s thumbs caressed Jongdae’s cheekbones tenderly, still unconvinced he was real. He had dreamed this face, conjured up the most trivial details to sate his craving day and night, over and over. But here, holding him so close, Jongdae’s face put any memory or fantasy to shame. The abrasion from the night they’d met had healed well, leaving a slight drawn, pink scar across his porcelain skin. Yixing ran his thumb over the mark, feeling hot tears sting his eyes. He blinked them away, only to see the same shine in Jongdae’s searching eyes.

        “You called.” Jongdae’s lips curved at the edges, just a hint of a smile brightening his expression, and parallel tears fell onto his cheeks, blending with residual raindrops. Yixing caught one with his thumb, swiping it away gently. Jongdae smiled wider, his hands hooking around Yixing’s waist. Fingers holding fast at the base of Jongdae’s neck, Yixing leaned forward and pressed his forehead to Jongdae’s, savoring every inch of gained proximity. He had thought in the intervening weeks that, should they meet again, their chemistry might not match its initial intensity – what if it was a one-time thing, a magical moment that couldn’t be replicated? But feeling Jongdae’s skin on his, hearing the steady inhale and exhale from his lips, smelling the green mixture of rain and youth and lust, he was proven wrong. They were no accident. This was truly, deeply, _right_.

        They kissed, there in the hall outside Yixing’s apartment, and it was exactly the opposite of their last. A touch that had been fleeting before, colored by miscommunication and dissatisfaction, now bloomed between them with abandon. Their lips clung to each other, eloquent and natural, their bodies shifting to accommodate as much contact as possible. Yixing cradled Jongdae’s head in his palms, fingers playing a dynamic tune on his neck, not minding the seep of rainwater from Jongdae’s body to his own. They took their time, holding onto each other as if to reassure themselves this was no dream. Jongdae let out a small whimper when they broke apart, Yixing’s own name made more beautiful when spoken from his lips. Yixing’s skin tingled at the sound, and he looked deep into Jongdae’s eyes again.

        “God, I missed you.” Jongdae’s flushed cheeks lifted, a satisfied, sweet smile playing at his reddened lips. A potent heat was spreading through Yixing’s body, every nerve seemed to stretch toward this perfect boy, sopping wet and gorgeous. He ran his hand down Jongdae’s neck, shoulder, arm, linked their fingers together, and led him inside his apartment.

        The moment Yixing’s hand released the knob on now closed door, he moved to take Jongdae in his arms again. Their lips met more urgently, regretful and determined over their lost time. Yixing began peeling away Jongdae’s soaked clothing as the younger mewled into his open mouth. Discarding his jacket and tee shirt into a sopping mess on the floor, Yixing forced himself to pull back, searching Jongdae’s face. He had no intention of taking advantage of him, of demanding anything that Jongdae wasn’t ready to give. But the feverish expression on Jongdae’s face tilted up toward Yixing’s own, jaw slack and eyes locked, was unmistakable. His heart fluttered; he would never get over the feeling of being wanted by this boy.

        Jongdae reached up and tangled his fingers in Yixing’s hair adoringly. Yixing breathed out at the sensation, the slight pull on his scalp, when Jongdae suddenly pressed his hips into Yixing, needy and persuasive. Yixing’s breathing hitched, feeling Jongdae’s erection distinctly through his pants. Jongdae swiveled his hips just once, encouraging Yixing’s own hardness, his eyes still drilling into Yixing with want.

        “Please…” The word spilling from Jongdae’s tongue triggered the memory of those haunting words Yixing had been plagued and pleasured by ceaselessly for weeks. Hearing it again now, with Jongdae so desperate for him, he wanted nothing more than to satisfy every request Jongdae would ever utter again.

        Yixing lowered himself slightly, bracing his legs, and lifted Jongdae up under his hips. Jongdae gasped, tightening his grip around Yixing’s neck, and wrapped his legs around his waist. Yixing made his way, carrying Jongdae, toward his bedroom, the younger burying his face in Yixing’s neck, invoking his name again and again like an incantation.

        Reaching the edge of his unmade bed, Yixing leaned forward, tipping Jongdae back, letting him flop onto the mattress. His damp blond hair fell onto the sheets, his naked chest heaving slightly with anticipation. Yixing took a moment to appreciate how much better this room looked with Jongdae in it.

        The younger propped himself up on his elbows, watching Yixing, as the harsh rain beat against the walls around them, a tranquil background for Yixing’s careful, slow progress. He knelt on the floor between Jongdae’s legs and ran his hands along the rain-chilled skin of his waist, marveling at the pristine, pulsing surface, encouraging a shiver out of the boy. He teased at the top button of Jongdae’s soaked jeans, then the zipper, taking his time with each detail. Jongdae whined and lifted his hips, aching at the attention. Yixing flicked his eyes up, and Jongdae felt a flush of embarrassment at how raw Yixing looked. It was almost too much to understand, the genuine care written so richly on his handsome features.

        Jongdae watched as Yixing, holding his gaze, lowered his face to the raised, prominent bulge below him. Yixing kissed the cool, clingy fabric, pressing his lips into the tension once, twice, then turned his head, resting his cheekbone on Jongdae’s clothed, hardening erection, spreading a more insistent pressure along Jongdae’s constrained length. Jongdae’s breath quickened, weakening under the delicious prolonged friction from Yixing’s sharp jaw and his gentle but demanding hands gripping his hips.

        Yixing heard a high, clipped moan above him; Jongdae was flat on the bed again, eyes closed, but his arms were stretched out along the sheets, those teasing, long fingers clutching at white cotton. Yixing lifted his head away from Jongdae’s pelvis and pulled the heavy denim away from his hips, revealing his hard, velvet cock, down his legs, and off his feet. Still kneeling, he let his hands rest on Jongdae’s slim, muscular thighs, those sinful planes that had often flashed in Yixing’s mind when he’d retreated to his balcony, remembering how they looked tucked up in Yixing’s arms in the sun. His eyes darted up to stare unabashedly at Jongdae’s erection, which mirrored the rest of his perfect, young body: lean, firm, and flawless.

        Jongdae sat up and scooted forward on the bed until he was sitting at the edge of the mattress. He looked down at Yixing, kneeling fully clothed in front of him, hands slow and curious on his frame; despite his vulnerable state, Jongdae felt safe, here, with this humble, beautiful man. He watched Yixing’s hands travel up his legs and around behind him, fingers pressing into his blessed ass cheeks. Jongdae responded, cupping his hands around Yixing’s cut jaw. His right thumb meandered up to rest on Yixing’s bottom lip, his favorite feature on the otherwise masculine, stoic face. His cock pulsed maddeningly as Yixing massaged into the Jongdae’s plush behind, reminded of their stunted tryst on the balcony, craving more. He caught Yixing’s eyes again, and raised his eyebrows.

        “Yixing?” The elder blinked, reverie filtering his vision. Jongdae pursed his lips, forming the question he’d wondered in the solitary darkness of his bed for the last month. “What would you do to me if I was eighteen?”

        The sinewy lines in Yixing’s neck strained. He had been so careful, so earnest in trying to restrict his mind from such fantasies since he’d reluctantly driven away from Jongdae five weeks ago. He wanted to respect Jongdae’s youth, and mind his own age, but this question, posed so purely from Jongdae’s pink lips, opened a door he’d been knocking at for some time. _What would I do to you if you were eighteen…_ The dam gave way, and every lurid, indulgent thought he’d tried to suppress flooded into the realm of immediate possibilities. He hummed, his lips vibrating against Jongdae’s thumb, eager and so desperate for him.

        Yixing dragged his hands away from behind Jongdae, running them back along his bony hips. Eying Jongdae’s hungry expression, he reached up with his left hand, pulling him down for a kiss. He tasted Jongdae, savored every curve and hollow of his mouth, as his right hand glided across pale skin, lightly brushing against the taut underside of Jongdae’s erection. It jumped at the touch, and Jongdae laced his fingers into Yixing’s hair, lust and want controlling his movement.

        But Yixing would not be rushed. As his tongue traced Jongdae’s teeth and his arced upper lip, his fingers explored Jongdae, experimenting with the slightest, most tortured, fleeting touches – his palm brushing up the shaft to the tip, thumb swirling around the head, knuckles pressed against the base so masterfully. Jongdae gnawed at Yixing’s lips, losing composure with every caress.

        Yixing treasured every tiny response from Jongdae, every gasp, every beseeching moan, every twitch of hips up into his hand. He felt, in a strange, heady way, that this was somehow what he was meant to do. This boy, perfect little Jongdae, was born to be worshiped, to be adored and taken care of in just this way. Yixing cradled his gasping jaw in his hand, overwhelmed with the mere privilege, while the other finally wrapped around his cock, strokes slow and reverent, feeling the details of the soft skin and raging blood beneath. He felt his own hardness respond, pressed painfully against the confines of his clothes, urging him further as Jongdae began crying his name again.

        “Ah – ah! Yixing, I – I’m – ” Jongdae’s hands pawed at Yixing’s neck, murmuring incoherently, hips bucking up sporadically. Yixing obliged, increasing the pressure and speed around Jongdae’s leaking cock. Jongdae tipped his head back, breath ragged and so beautiful in Yixing’s ears. Yixing saw the urgency in Jongdae’s throat, the sheen of sweat across his reddening chest, the tension in his arms, and he felt every painful, conflicted ache in his own heart wash away. He pulsed his hand around Jongdae’s cockhead, delighting in the slick sounds of Jongdae’s precum between his fingers. Fire surged through his own veins, watching Jongdae suffer for him like this.

        “Come for me, baby. Let me see you come.” And Jongdae howled, digging his nails into Yixing’s hair, rocking his hips again and again. Slick streams spilled out of his pink slit, dripping down Yixing’s fingers as he came, every muscle contracting at once. Yixing’s eyes drank it in, Jongdae’s radiant, fevered orgasm. He stroked him through the vibrations, holding him close when Jongdae flopped forward into Yixing’s shoulder, draping himself there, breathing heavily.

        “Yixiiing…” Jongdae’s voice was quiet, meek, spent. Yixing loved how he had brought that voice out of him, took him to that place.

        “Baby, you look so good.” He tongued at Jongdae’s earlobe, eliciting another delicious whine, as he pulled his hand away from Jongdae’s throbbing, sated dick. Jongdae lifted his head and looked into Yixing’s eyes. His sleepy, black pupils pulsed along with his breath, looking equally wild and tamed.

        “Yixing – ”Jongdae reached down and grabbed Yixing’s sullied hand in his own smaller one, bringing it up to his face as if to examine it. “That felt so good – I want to make you feel like that.” His own creamy cum was spreading across Yixing’s fingers, and with great care, Jongdae flicked his tongue along the length of Yixing’s thumb, his palm, his ring finger, collecting the expelled, bitter liquid with kitten licks. His lips parted, and he took Yixing’s two longest fingers in his mouth, sucking sweetly on them, eyes closing in pleasure.

        Yixing’s voice betrayed him, a low groan rumbling in his throat. Jongdae opened his bleary, attentive eyes at the sound, landing on Yixing’s gritted teeth and strained expression; his pride swelled, seeing Yixing’s mature façade peel away at his touch. He slid his tongue between Yixing’s fingers filthily inside his sweltering mouth. The arcs of Jongdae’s cheeks, concave and thrumming with the suction and moisture around his fingers, which still tingled from gripping Jongdae’s slicked up cock, wrecked Yixing; his need to be gentle with this boy was falling away to something more primal, more base.

        “Baby…” Yixing shifted on his knees, a little sore, but the movement only brought his own urgent need to the front of his mind. Jongdae sucked harder, pulling Yixing’s fingers out of his mouth slowly, a shiny string of saliva and cum connected between them as he pulled away. He licked his pretty lips, taunting Yixing dangerously.

        “Yixing.” He brought his hand down to rub at the bulge in Yixing’s pants, the elder convulsing with the sudden attention to his neglected cock. “Please… _call me little one again_? Talk to me. I want your voice…” His own voice was high-pitched and still thin from his own orgasm, words tumbling out of him easily. “I want to make you feel as good as you make me feel. And I want you tell me I’m yours.”

        His long fingers clutched and tugged at the tense fabric, skimming below the base to tentatively stroke Yixing’s balls. He gave the distinct impression of being both the perfect image of innocence, his golden hair drying in soft waves around his fair face, and an absolute devil, coaxing the most defiled, wicked thoughts into Yixing’s head as he started to unfasten his pants. “I am yours, aren’t I, Yixing? I want to be yours so badly.” He looked up, scanning Yixing’s face for a response.

        Yixing stood, forcing Jongdae to sit back onto the bed. At this angle, Jongdae couldn’t help marveling at the ample strain behind Yixing’s pants, but Yixing’s hand reached out and lifted his chin up, Jongdae instantly submissive and waiting in his possession. Yixing spoke, his voice lower, rougher than before.

        “You want to be mine, little one?”

        “Yes, oh _yes_ , Yixing. So much.” Yixing held Jongdae’s chin still, peering into the open, eager face. It was more than he’d ever imagined for himself, better than any fantasy. In the weeks after meeting him, Yixing had toiled over what it was about Jongdae that had him so entirely fucked up, a process punctuated by his conversation with Chanyeol and Baekhyun over the phone. But now, in this moment, with his deepest, most vulnerable desires so close to the surface, he knew it wasn’t simply wish fulfillment, physical attraction, or even an outlet for this untapped kink of his. Looking into Jongdae’s eyes, Yixing felt like he might have found something unspeakably rare. His heart seized at the possibility. It was as if he had been flat his whole life, and Jongdae summoned a whole new dimension of him, one he was incandescently happy, though certainly a little nervous, to explore. He allowed himself to submit to the litany of crushing, demanding words filling his mind, all gifts he wanted to offer his little one.

        “And you want me to take care of you?”

        “Yes,Yixing. You are so good to me.” Jongdae, stilled in Yixing’s hold, read the face above him, seeing both protector and a new shade of predator, lighting a fire in his stomach. He waited, sensing a change from Yixing’s earlier gentle demeanor. It thrilled him to be at someone’s mercy, while still feeling completely secure; he suspected no one else could strike that balance for him, control him like this powerful, commanding man above him.

        “You want me to tell you what I want? You want me to…” Yixing paused, girding his own ego. _Don’t hold back now. Trust him. Say it._ “…command you?” A tiny voice in his head mocked him for the word, but the drop of Jongdae’s jaw in his hand, the creased brow, the plaintive, yielding look in his eyes silenced it immediately.

        “I just want to be good for you…” Jongdae’s hands reached out to attend to Yixing’s clothing again, but Yixing laid his hand on top of them, halting their progress, despite how badly he needed to be touched. This was too important. He owed it to both of them to do this right – they were both sacrificing so much.

        “Then I want you to say my name,” Yixing said, low and clear. Jongdae started to respond, overeager, but his voice stalled behind his teeth. He looked up at Yixing, his bottom lip quivering with absolute attention.

        “Say my name, Jongdae.”

        A stuttered, quaking inhale, then “… _daddy_.” Jongdae breathed out the syllables, and Yixing couldn’t suppress the gratified, relieved shiver down his back.

        “Yes. Now tell me what you want to do for me.”

        “Please, daddy – ” Jongdae looked willing, but vaguely unsure how to proceed. His hands twitched in his lap, itching to go to work returning the generous satisfaction Yixing had paid him, but he was timid, shy about immersing himself in this dynamic. He _genuinely_ , deeply thirsted for this; from his first impression of Yixing across the bar, he had seen the potential in him to be the gentle, strong lover he so craved. But it was one thing to finger yourself in your shower, choking on the name of a man you barely know, coming so hard your knees buckle against wet tile, and quite another to be face to face with whatever demands accompanied submitting to someone so fully. It was risky, and Jongdae hesitated at the edge.

        Yixing saw the doubt flicker in Jongdae’s eyes. Before today, before this very minute, he would have immediately recoiled into himself, avoiding the possibility of rejection from someone as precious as Jongdae in favor of safe, predictable isolation. But he had and answer to the question Chanyeol had asked him, however unbelievable, however strange. He was in for this; he would be Jongdae’s protector, his daddy, his love, as long as Jongdae wanted him.

        “Baby.” Yixing pulled Jongdae’s hands up to his chest, inviting him to stand. Jongdae exhaled and stood, hands entwined in Yixing’s, eyes lowered to stare at Yixing’s welcoming, comforting chest. “Listen to me, now. I meant what I said on the phone. This isn’t a game to me. I need you. And I think… I think you might need me, too. I would never ask you to do anything you don’t want to do, Jongdae, and _I would never hurt you_. I hope you know how badly I want to take care of you.” Jongdae started to nod furiously, his eyes glinting with a glaze of tears. “I don’t want to play with you. I don’t want to… degrade you like that. You’re too perfect. If you let me, I think I can love you the way you deserve to be loved…” Yixing squeezed Jongdae’s fingers in assurance, heart throbbing with the uncomfortable but glorious stretch of intimacy and honesty. “I want to try, anyway. But only if you want me to. Because this is real for me. I’m not sure what I’m doing, but I know how I feel about you. I knew it when you called me daddy the first time.” Jongdae sniffled a small laugh and lifted his head to look Yixing in the eye. A tear spilled over his lashes, dripping down his cheek, splashing on his chest. “I’m in, little one, for whatever this could be.”

        Jongdae let the tears fall, unblinking. The dual sides of Yixing stood before him, the force that could undo him and build him up stronger, beautiful and vulnerable and strong. Every unheard plea for attention, every stab of neglect, every dismissal he’d earned throughout his life bowed low inside him at Yixing’s words. Perhaps, with the love of this man, he could heal those wounds.

        Jongdae smiled as Yixing brought tender fingers to his face, swiping his tears away. He blushed and began to speak clumsily, trying to meet Yixing in the middle, honoring his admission.

        “That night… when you saved me from the bar… you brought me here, you cleaned me up… you handled my wounds… and I do want more.” He continued, gaining confidence as he spoke. “I feel so good when I’m with you, and I know it’s because you’re a gentle, generous person. I knew it wasn’t just a one-time-thing… that’s why I left my number. But when you didn’t call, I thought maybe I’d done something wrong.” He kept going through Yixing’s attempt to break in. “But I know that you just didn’t want to do something you’d regret. And I know this isn’t easy for you. But I really do want you.” His voice faltered and the flush on his cheeks darkened. “I want you to _control_ me, Yixing. Because I trust you – I want to be with you, and I want make you proud. I… I _want_ to be your baby. I want to be yours.”

        Yixing listened, rapt. When Jongdae went quiet, his ears tuned to the other sounds in the room. Jongdae’s slightly labored breathing; his own, unexpectedly ragged, matching the intense moment; the rain, still thrumming against the walls; distant thunder.

        They moved fluidly, the catharsis of their mutual confession floating like a protective shelter in the air above them as they wordlessly climbed onto the bed, lips pressed together, hands working at buttons and zippers. Soon, Yixing’s clothes were dropped over the side of the bed, and the pair savored the long-awaited, crackling sensation of skin on skin. Yixing ran his hands along the boyish lines of Jongdae’s body, but Jongdae was more insistent. He had wondered about what exactly Yixing was concealing under his understated, classic clothes, but seeing him fully like this, bare and open to him alone, had Jongdae beside himself with want.

        Jongdae pushed Yixing down onto his back, trailing a sloppy set of kisses and those infuriating, tickling kitten licks down his torso. Yixing craned his neck to watch Jongdae move, his adorable ass angled up in the air as his lips made their way down Yixing’s lean stomach. Jongdae lifted his head away from Yixing’s skin a few inches, still crouched low over his legs and pelvis. He opened his mouth wider and exhaled hot, steamy breath on the flat plane just under Yixing’s belly button. Yixing groaned, feeling his cock start to respond again.

        Eager to hear more of the voice he’d come to adore, Jongdae angled his breathing downward, dousing Yixing’s heavy, impatient cock in heat, earning himself another groan.

        “Rhhh Jongdae…”

        Jongdae poked his tongue out and painted the insides of Yixing’s twitching thighs with his saliva. He planted his hands on Yixing’s knees, pressing outward to settle his knees in between them. He saw Yixing look down at him from the head of the bed, eyebrows lofted, his gaping mouth an edgy, needy ‘o’.

        “Yes, daddy?”

        “Please, baby. Don’t torture me…”

        Jongdae grinned briefly before opening his curvy lips wide, taking in as much of Yixing as he could manage in one go. Full to the frayed edge of his gag reflex, he swiveled his tongue wetly around Yixing’s thick, pulsing shaft, messy and endearingly rookie. After overlooking his own needs in favor of Jongdae’s, this sensation of plunging into Jongdae’s gorgeous mouth was almost painfully good. Yixing growled up to the ceiling, suppressing his urgent desire to hold Jongdae’s head still and fuck his mouth mercilessly. _Jesus, Yixing, calm down._ But watching golden hair bounce below him, feeling Jongdae’s fingers plying into his thighs for balance, hearing his sweet voice call him daddy like that was the name God intended for him was twisting the knot in his pelvis tighter, release nearing far too quickly.

        Yixing held on, watching Jongdae work up a rhythm around him, slurping, slick noises heightening the lovely suction. Yixing leaned forward, reaching a hand out. Jongdae looked up, mouth still spread beautifully abused around Yixing’s cruel erection. His cheeks weren’t deflated like they had been around Yixing’s fingers – they were elongated, but full, _so full of Yixing_. Yixing touched his fingers to Jongdae’s cheek, pressing in slightly. He felt his fingers on his own cockhead through the strained skin of Jongdae’s mouth, and it was too much.

        Yixing hastily lifted Jongdae chin up, forcing his mouth away from his dick. He felt the urge to punch himself hard in the face for depriving himself again, but he thought briefly of Minseok, and how he wanted nothing of this night to feel like that one.

        “Daddy? Was it bad?” Jongdae’s swollen, used lips puffed up in question, though Yixing’s sweaty brow and practically levitating cock answered for him.

        “No baby, I just…” _How to put this_ … “Do you think you could let me…”  
Jongdae perked up further, though his hand, thank God, worked lightly at Yixing’s slicked up cock as Yixing floundered for the right words. Jongdae thought for a second, reading the discomfort in the elder’s pause.

        "Daddy… do you want to fuck me?” _Such brash words from that angelic mouth... But bless him for saying it._

        “Oh baby, yes. Is that alright?” Yixing had no idea how experienced Jongdae was, though, going off his earnest but limited blowjob skills, he couldn’t imagine he’d had someone fuck his ass enough that it would be easy for him. Plus, Yixing was endowed measurably thicker than most, which might be a problem given Jongdae’s slim, young frame.

        “I – yes. Yes, daddy.” Jongdae’s voice took on a whiny, girlish quality as his fingers glided up and down Yixing’s straining erection. “I want you inside me… but… ” Jongdae’s fingers, long and crafty, snuck under around Yixing’s balls again, handling them as he spoke. “You’re so big, daddy. I don’t know…”

        Yixing’s ego was fairly low maintenance, generally speaking. But those words out of his little one’s mouth were like lightening in his bones. He was a man, after all.

        “Okay, baby. We’ll go really slowly. And you tell me how it feels. It may hurt a little, but I will be as careful as I can be.”

        “I trust you. Please… I want you to use me.” He released his hold on Yixing’s groin and scooted back toward the end of the bed.

        Yixing silently marveled at what miracles he must have performed in a past life to deserve this moment as he reached to his nightstand, fishing toward the back corner of the drawer, fingers closing around a non-descript bottle.

        “Lay down, little one. Facing me.” Jongdae obeyed, milky skin stretched out, malleable and waiting for Yixing.

        Skimming his fingers along Jongdae’s ankle, calf, knee, thigh, Yixing knelt next to Jongdae’s hips, a dreamy arc to his eyes.

        “You ready, baby?” Jongdae closed his eyes, purring as he spread his legs a few inches.

        Yixing opened the bottle of lube, but held off dribbling its contents onto his hands. Watching Jongdae settle into malleable submission, so good and so willing with his lovely legs open for him, he wanted to relish every second. He knew he would come eventually – why rush this?

        He lifted one of Jongdae’s legs high and snuck under it, laying down between the younger’s legs.

        “Keep your eyes closed for me, okay?”

        “Yes, daddy.”

        Yixing’s stomach flipped again, vowing to do his new name justice. He wedged his hands just under Jongdae’s hips and pushed up slightly, angling him away from the bed. Jongdae murmured, but yielded to the motion, propping his feet closer so he could keep himself held aloft. Yixing abandoned the bottle next to him and ran his hands on the warm, pink skin around Jongdae’s pelvis. Unable to resist any longer, he brought his lips to Jongdae’s entrance and breathed hot air across the puckered skin.

        “Daddy!” Jongdae squealed and dropped his hips, but Yixing snuck his hands under him and held fast.

        “It’s okay. You’ll like it, I promise.” Jongdae’s eyes were wide, scandalized, but the thrumming in his neck betrayed his lustful curiosity. A little nod from him, and Yixing smiled. He gripped Jongdae’s hips and pulled him close so they were entwined right in the middle of the bed. Jongdae’s arms pawed at the sheets, but Yixing chuckled and flipped Jongdae over onto his front, easily manipulating his small frame. Jongdae yipped again, but he felt blood rush to his penis. He had fantasized about being dominated, and the thrill of sweet Yixing controlling him went straight to his dick. He whined and held himself up on all fours.

        Yixing palmed Jongdae’s gorgeous ass, squeezing a little harder than before, eliciting another deliciously whined “ _daddy_!” He used his thumbs to spread Jongdae apart for him, and immediately slathered his hole with his spit. Jongdae whinnied, wiggling his hips, uncomfortably at first. But as Yixing alternated between slick, flat licks across the surface and a more invasive, experimental pressure, Jongdae felt his mind empty, and leaned back a little into Yixing’s mouth. Yixing grinned helplessly, seeing Jongdae’s perfect body submit to him over and over. He narrowed his tongue and pressed against the opening, feeling resistance, then release as Jongdae relaxed his muscles. Yixing’s tongue lined the rim then dipped inside. _This has got to be a dream._ Yixing buried his face in Jongdae’s ass, slicking up the skin enough to render the forgotten lube unnecessary.

        “Daddy! Daddy! Ah!” Jongdae cried out as Yixing pulled away, coating his fingers in his own saliva.

        “That’s right baby. You’re mine. I’m going to keep going, okay?”

        “Yes! Don’t stop!”

        Yixing lined the edge of Jongdae’s entrance with his wet finger, letting Jongdae prepare himself, then breached past the tense ring of muscles. He heard Jongdae protest, so he paused, but Jongdae whined out of his discomfort and leaned back onto Yixing’s finger, demanding more. Yixing slid inside further, then worked the unstretched muscles slowly. After a few minutes, he lined up his second finger, adding it to the first. Jongdae moaned in response. With every arch of his back, every swivel of his hips, Yixing grew more desperate to feel Jongdae’s needy grip around his cock. He worked his fingers in and out, prepping Jongdae as slowly as he could force himself to go, humming affirmations for the boy as he went.

        “Daddy…” Jongdae’s head was angled to the side, trying to look back. Yixing leaned up and cupped his jaw in his hand.

        “What is it?”

        “I think I’m ready.” Yixing’s throat jumped. Never in his life had he heard more beautiful words. He traced his thumb on Jongdae's lips, earning himself a little smile from the boy.

        “Yeah? You want it, baby?” Jongdae nuzzled into Yixing’s hand and rolled his hips explicitly.

        “Unh, yes. Yes!”

        “Say it.” Yixing’s cock throbbed as he held Jongdae’s jaw, feeling nerves flexing around his still fingers.

        “Fuck me, daddy. I want you inside me, _please_.” Jongdae spoke louder, almost shouting. Yixing felt like he might be melting.

        He let go of Jongdae, who extended his arms to grasp the edge of the mattress. Yixing snagged the discarded bottle of lube, uncapped the lid, and spilled a generous amount into his hand. He slicked it up his solid, veiny length, gasping at his own touch after such a painfully inadequate hour, and swiped the rest across Jongdae’s entrance, enjoying the little shiver it caused.

        He shifted his knees again, and brought his cockhead up to Jongdae, tracing a slippery line with it up his thigh, under his ass cheek, then around his flexed, loosened hole. Hand guiding the base, Yixing applied pressure, watching with glassy, half-lidded eyes as Jongdae tensed, relaxed, then took the full tip inside.

        Yixing was startled by how hot, how _absurdly tight_ Jongdae was, despite his careful preparations. Jongdae barked out a few incoherent syllables, and Yixing did his very best not to smash into him til he cried, angling his hips in and out of Jongdae, little by little, allowing him time to adjust.

        Jongdae’s eyes went blank as Yixing entered him; he had sex once before this, and it had been with someone younger than him. He had absolutely no handle on what was happening to him, the closest reference point being his own slim, soap slicked fingers in the shower. But Yixing felt almost like machinery – he was so smooth, so thick and huge inside him, wrecking him open, excruciatingly slow and rhythmic. Jongdae couldn’t control his voice, babbling out nonsense about “ _daddy, you’re too big_ ” and “ _oh god, you feel so good_.” And it did feel good. It hurt, it was an achy stretch he’d never felt before, but knowing it was Yixing doing the damage, he leaned into the pain, increasingly hungry for more.

        Yixing, ever patient, waited until Jongdae started grinding into him loosely, taking about half Yixing’s cock in motion. He hooked his hands around Jongdae’s hips, a warning, then thrust himself fully into Jongdae.

        The unexpected fullness forced the air out of Jongdae’s lungs. The burn, in his throat and his gut and his ass, was better than any booze he’d pilfered. He gritted his teeth and locked his elbows.

        “More.” Jongdae growled out the word, destroying the last vestiges of Yixing’s restraint.

        Yixing hitched Jongdae hips up a fraction, improving the angle, and started pounding into him. Jongdae was gripping him so tightly, his walls contracting in rhythm with Yixing’s thrusts. Jongdae’s head dropped to the bed, his back a long, pale curve, angling away from his abused, possessed ass. His angelic, ruined voice was muffled in the sheets, only spurring Yixing on. He pumped in and out of Jongdae, gaining speed as the boy slumped further, absolutely pliant.

        Yixing reached around and felt around, gripping Jongdae’s hard cock, giving it a few erratic pumps.

        “Ah – Yixing! Don’t!” Yixing let go, but groaned, satisfied, when Jongdae lifted his own hand to stroke himself.

        “That’s right. Come again, baby. Come from my cock.” Jongdae whined, and tried to match Yixing’s pace. But Yixing was close, the tangled, urgent heat in his gut raging. He tilted forward a bit, hitting into Jongdae harder and deeper, aiming for that certain spot.

        Jongdae cried out, eyes squeezed shut, tears leaking out the sides.

        “There! There! Yes, _daddy, please_!” Yixing kept at it, his hips smacking filthily into Jongdae’s skin.

        A few more strokes, paired with Yixing’s well-aimed thrusts, and Jongdae was silently howling, his teeth bared, convulsing through another orgasm. His cum spilled out across Yixing’s sheets so beautifully, and Yixing just had to see the sporadic tremors in Jongdae’s back muscles, highlighted by a lovely sheen of sweat, to follow.

        It was like he’d been hit by a truck. Every drop of blood seemed to scream toward his cock at the same time, all his senses shut down to yield to the eruption in his groin. He thrust into Jongdae as he climaxed, feeling his legs weaken, his own cum leaking out of Jongdae with the force of it.

        Yixing stopped breathing. His vision went dark, and the only thing that existed was Jongdae.

        He came back to the surface, still holding Jongdae’s hips, both their breathing heavy and gasping. Yixing felt a strange dizziness inching around his head, and he sat back on his heels, pulling out of Jongdae too quickly. The boy yelped and collapsed onto the bed, bringing his legs together protectively.

        Yixing instantly had his hands on him, comforting Jongdae.

        “Baby – baby, are you okay?”

        Jongdae’s face was pale, drained of color apart from a lovely ruddy splotch in each cheek, and damp from sweat and tears. He looked exhausted, and Yixing bent over him, consciousness returning reluctantly.

        “Baby, talk to me.”

        But Jongdae couldn’t form words. He simply reached up a hand, shaky, and gripped Yixing’s shoulder, pulling him down to lay next to him. Yixing did, bringing Jongdae’s small frame close, harbored against his chest.

        They lay like that for a while, wordless and satisfied. Yixing ran the tips of his fingers along Jongdae’s arm, ribs, hip, encouraging little goosebumps occasionally. Their breathing slowed, and Yixing kissed Jongdae’s sleepy, trashed face. He watched the boy relax, thinking he might even fall asleep. But as Yixing spelled out romantic, indulgent words into his skin, Jongdae’s eyes flickered open, their glassy quality making him look more beautiful than he’d ever been in Yixing’s mind.

        “Daddy…” His voice was a little ragged at the edges, but it was also heavy, significant. “Daddy, I – I never want to leave.” His lips spoke the words as if they’d been caged in his heart, finally set free. He snuck a hand up between them, extending two fingers up to touch Yixing’s cheek, inspiring his charming dimple to appear in response. Jongdae smiled, the sharp edges of his lips curling with the bliss of the moment. “I want to love you, daddy, and I want you to love me… Do you love me?”

        Yixing brought his hand up Jongdae’s curved spine, neck, and into his rich hair, coiling his fingers around the slightly sweaty, disheveled locks.

        “Little one…” His fingers massaged into Jongdae’s scalp, a warm and nurturing touch calming Jongdae further. _You are all I’ve ever wanted, everything I don’t deserve, and exactly what I’ll spend my life trying to earn._ He made the promise to himself more than Jongdae, signing his fate in the space between Jongdae’s question and his answer.

        “Honestly? I can’t remember what it was like before I loved you.”


	5. Chapter 5

        Yixing felt Jongdae before he saw him. Behind closed eyes, he sensed feathered touches along the slope of his shoulder, his elbow, his hairline. Like a canvas for Jongdae’s musings, Yixing’s skin collected the fleeting designs flowing from Jongdae’s fingers: little clipped lyrics, temporary topography and maps of nowhere in particular.

        Following the relaxed landscape of his back, Jongdae traced a line, soft and slow, lifting the sheet away to expose the twin divots beside the base of his spine. Propped up on his elbow, the last remnants of sleep blinked away from his eyes, Jongdae’s fingers explored Yixing’s body at their leisure, the elder’s rhythmic breathing like quiet music in his ears. He swept the back of his nails up the length of Yixing’s back, a small noise catching in his throat as he watched goosebumps crop up across the lean expanse. Yixing turned his head toward Jongdae, pulled up from his half-sleep by the slight chill on his naked skin. His eyes opened, bleary and reluctant, but his mouth perked up in a smile seeing Jongdae nestled next to him, sharing the lovely warmth of white cotton.

        “Mmm. Morning, little one,” Yixing grumbled, his voice low and scratchy from sleep. Jongdae returned the smile as his eyes wandered, watching Yixing stretch awake, shoulder blades arching, back muscles flexing to life.

        “Hi, daddy.” Jongdae bit his lip; saying the name out loud, the name he’d been praying every minute since their first night together, the name he’d been screaming into an abused pillow a few hours ago, now that he was floating in the afterglow of their reunion, Jongdae felt abashed. He hoped deep in his bones that he was right about Yixing, that he would bear the name even without the adrenaline of sex to hide behind. Jongdae blushed and gratefully tucked in beside Yixing, burrowing into the warmth of his naked body.

        Yixing hummed his pleasure, feeling the happy rush of Jongdae’s skin held against his own. They wrapped their arms around each other, knuckles pressed into shoulders, feet sliding up calves. They shifted against each other constantly, minutely, just enough to continue the bliss of friction, savoring the quiet morning closeness.

        His nose buried in Jongdae’s hair, Yixing inhaled the remnant, mixed fragrances of rain, sweat, and sex. He felt his head swim, recognizing himself imprinted in Jongdae’s scent. Images of his own hands raking through Jongdae’s hair, skimming teeth across his neck and down his chest, their bodies giving and taking, overlapping and combining with each other, materialized and dissolved in his mind. A vague dizziness curled around his temples at the reminder. He pursed his lips and planted kiss after kiss into the mess of golden curls, drowning in a flood of endorphins, causing Jongdae to wriggle with satisfaction.

        “Did you sleep well, baby?” Yixing mumbled into Jongdae’s hair, feeling drunk from the absolute perfection of the moment.

        “Mhm. Better than I have in weeks.” Jongdae’s voice was a whisper, a privilege for only Yixing’s ears. But the words had an edge to them, a shadow (of accusation? confession? or just hurt…), sneaking beneath their surface meaning. Yixing pulled back a bit from Jongdae to look him in the eye – there was bliss there, but behind his gaze lurked some soreness, a fatigue Yixing knew very well. His own heart echoed that pain in response; their mutual suffering rose to the surface and Yixing felt his very skin ache to alleviate the pressure. He smiled, apology and regret and relief mingling together.

        “Me, too.” _Better than I ever have in my life._ Yixing snaked his arm around Jongdae to hold his jaw, his thumb mapping the sharp peaks of his features. Jongdae’s body responded to the touch immediately, sinking into Yixing like liquid, a rolling heat flaring inside him. He felt exposed, and all he wanted was to slip under the surface like he had last night, submit to the devils and desires of his young heart. None too soon, Yixing angled forward to meet Jongdae’s waiting lips, sorrow and joy flooding through them as they kissed, slow and deep.

        Jongdae whined into Yixing’s mouth, a vibrating, needy sound, desperate for more contact, despite the residual strain still pooled in his muscles. Yixing’s brain sparked awake as he felt nails clawing his skin, the length of Jongdae’s arms around him tight, searching, craving. Despite the fog still blurring his thoughts, Yixing felt his body react in tandem with Jongdae.

        Their legs curved around each other, the top sheet falling away by their curled toes, as Jongdae gripped onto Yixing possessively with a slim thigh around his hip. Yixing’s breath caught, breaking their heated kiss; he felt Jongdae’s hard cock against his own increasingly alert one, a brush of skin on skin, then a little slip of precious moisture between them, sending a quaking shiver up his spine.

        Yixing felt electrocuted, a hot surge erupting through his blood, hearing Jongdae’s tender voice cry out at the touch, the younger’s leaking precum an undeniable, desperate plea for Yixing. Jongdae dug his nails in harder, finding purchase on Yixing’s back and shoulder as he thrust his hips forward, meeting Yixing’s own with uncontrolled insistent.

        “ _Daddy_ …” Jongdae’s voice was already _so_ stretched, so on edge; Yixing wondered how long Jongdae had been awake, how long he’d been touching him, watching him as he slept off the sweet fatigue of the night before. _How is he already this turned on? He’s insatiable…_ The thought blinked in and out of his head as Jongdae’s teeth skittered down Yixing’s neck, his chest, taking a nipple between his pert, perfect lips, manipulating the skin with his tongue, sucking and nibbling with enthusiasm. Yixing groaned, blood rushing through his body, emptying his brain.

        “Baby?” He ran his hands across Jongdae’s arms, laced into his hair, enjoying the unique tingling Jongdae’s tongue was causing. “What – ”

        Jongdae took the sensitive, firm skin between his teeth and pulled slightly, lifting his head up, and blinked his eyes toward Yixing. A delicious and unsatisfying pain bloomed in Yixing’s chest, and he couldn’t speak, split between wanting Jongdae to release him or try to bring him to orgasm from just that glorious _ache_.

        Jongdae pulled a little further, flicking his tongue across the nub, earning a broken moan from Yixing. He let go with a little smack of his lips, immediately massaging the reddened skin with soft fingers.

        Yixing shuddered with the rushed, heady mix of relief and heat. He inhaled deeply, the oxygen singing in his head, causing his eyes to blank out for a beat. _This kid is making me high…_ Yixing thought, and let his body take over where his reason was absent.

        Without warning, Yixing manhandled Jongdae onto his back, one hand behind his long, almost girlish neck, the other groping around, settling on his favorite – Jongdae’s twitching, expectant ass. Jongdae saw the flash of predator he’d seen the night before, his heart crashing in triumph at the sight. The bed creaked its complaints at the sudden movement, but Jongdae’s breathy whines were louder. He lay prone, under Yixing’s pulsing frame, his cock dripping with need, pupils flooding his eyes, inadequate to take in the beauty of the man above him.

        With gritted, gnashing teeth, Yixing took in the image of his boy, relishing the thrumming veins in Jongdae’s neck, the arch in his back, and his tensed, jutted hip flexors, opened to him with a vulnerability of which he planned to take full advantage.

        “Baby…” Thick, befuddling intoxication continued to blur his head, prompting him to speak before he had time to edit what he was saying. “Are you really ready for more?”

        Yixing felt himself teetering, walking a mental plank, staring down into the ocean of his untapped, undiscovered desires. Anxiety might have held him back, it had in the past, but seeing the want, the purity of need in Jongdae’s eyes, he was sure he would not fall alone.

        “I was gentle with you last night, baby. Are you sure you’re ready?”

        Jongdae was trembling beneath him, his dick throbbing, curved up and painting a lewd puddle of precum on his stomach. His mouth fell open, his breathing hurried.

        “ _Daddy_ …”

        Jongdae’s legs hooked behind Yixing’s and pulled, trying to reconnect their hips, but Yixing put a hand to Jongdae’s chest, pressing down a little. Holding Jongdae in place, seeing the flicker of caution in his eyes, paired with the growing mess glistening on his stomach, Yixing understood what was making him feel high – it wasn’t simply sex, nor just Jongdae. It was power; it was the dominance Jongdae gifted him so generously, so willingly. He was in control, in a way he’d never experienced. He’d had a taste the night before, but seeing Jongdae so hungry for more encouraged him. _And down this rabbit hole we ago, little one._

        “No, no, baby. I told you. I was gentle with you before. If you’re going to call me daddy, then you have to learn to follow me. If you’re going to be a little _tease_ ,” Yixing narrowed his eyes and surveyed the body beneath him, heat spreading in his chest, acclimating to this new power, “then you better be prepared for what comes after.”

        “Wha – what comes after? What are you going to do?” Jongdae’s voice shifted toward that sugary, breathy tone that seeped into Yixing’s nerves, shooting straight to his cock.

        “Whatever I damn well please, little one.”

        Jongdae hissed, and closed his eyes. Yixing watched as a tremor vibrated through the body below him, and he couldn’t help himself. He lowered his torso back, arms flexing on either side of Jongdae, until his mouth was level with Jongdae’s urgent, painfully hard erection.

        Yixing did not smile, but he felt a fulfillment, some unspeakable euphoria unlike anything he’d ever experienced.

        With Jongdae’s eyes still squinted shut, Yixing bent his chin and licked a broad, possessive stripe from the pale skin at the base of Jongdae’s cock slowly up the shaft. He took his time toward the head, lingering with little controlled flicks of the firm tip of his tongue, manipulating the wet slit to taste the salty precum that continued to spill out. Jongdae’s gasps fluttered into Yixing’s ears, followed by the thumping of fist onto mattress.

        “Daddy!” Yixing paused and looked up, hearing a shrill tone above him. Jongdae’s face was drained of color, his eyes wide and glassy.

        “What is it?”

        “I – ” Jongdae swallowed, the muscles in his neck tense. “I want you inside me. Now. _Please_.”

        Yixing’s heart climbed into his throat. He blinked and furrowed his brows. Still fumbling through the power dynamic they were building, he wasn’t sure how to respond. Luckily, Jongdae filled in the gap.

        “Please daddy. I need you. Please, _please_ don’t make me wait.”

        “I don’t want to hurt you, baby…”

        “Daddy, please. I… _want_ it to hurt.” Yixing’s stomach flipped. “I want you now, please. I’ll do anything… You could… let me do it.”

        Yixing tried to process these words, neurons firing ineffectively, but Jongdae was already pawing at his chest, pleading for him to… _what?_

_Oh my god, he wants permission._

        Yixing felt a flush of excitement and pride; it was a unique pleasure, this cavalier exploration into the best sex he’d never been brave enough to imagine. He extended his body forward again, letting a hand grope around the velvet-smooth skin where his tongue left off.

        “You’ll do anything, huh? Are you that desperate, baby?” Jongdae keened as Yixing used light fingers to massage around his balls, prompting him, Jongdae’s own fingers reaching up to pet Yixing’s cheek and jaw, worshipful.

        “ _Please._ I want you so badly.”

        "Well, then… you’re going to have to work for it, baby,” Yixing purred, poised above Jongdae like a panther.

        Yixing hooked one hand behind Jongdae’s neck, pulling him in for a kiss. Their tongues met, slick and hot, as Yixing shifted so Jongdae was on top, straddling him. Yixing shifted back toward the headboard, enjoying the brimming excitement apparent in Jongdae’s moans.

        Jongdae pulled back, his mouth raw and open, and he brought his hand to his mouth. Yixing watched him spit into his palm then hurriedly drop his hand. Yixing’s eyes flickered shut, faltering under the wet pulsing of Jongdae’s fingers around him. His neck gave, and he dropped his head back a little too hard against the wooden headboard. The thud rang in his ears, a dull pain radiating through his skull just as Jongdae thumbed around his cockhead. The combination of senses overwhelmed him, and he felt a kick low in his gut.

        Jongdae took his hand away immediately, looking up at Yixing, who was groaning a strangled mix of arousal and anguish at the pain in his head.

        “Yixing?”

        But Yixing held his hand up, halting Jongdae’s concern. The back of his head thumped from the impact, but he felt a new urgency in his pelvis that seemed compounded by the pain. He needed to take Jongdae. Now.

        His eyes opened and trained on Jongdae, their breathing speeding up with anticipation.

        “Get on, baby.”

        A shock flared in Jongdae’s eyes. He balked for a second, and Yixing thought he looked like he might cry. But Jongdae exhaled and reached his hands up to Yixing’s shoulders to steady himself, lifting his hips up to hover just above Yixing’s own. He looked into Yixing’s eyes, pupils practically pulsing with arousal, bottom lip serrated between his teeth.

        Jongdae gripped Yixing’s shoulder tightly and let one hand drop to find Yixing’s cock. Yixing grumbled at the touch, reaching out to hold Jongdae by the waist, steadying him as he found his bearings. Jongdae maneuvered himself to the right position, perched just above Yixing’s dick, lowering himself down slowly, guiding their bodies together.

        The head of Yixing’s cock touched, just barely, the puckered skin of Jongdae’s entrance. The boy gasped and clamped his eyes shut.

        “Look at me, baby.” Yixing’s voice was low and commanding, wearing the role of _daddy_ the best he could. Jongdae did, and Yixing locked on the younger, watching the rapid dilation in his eyes, the intense need mixed with trepidation.

        “You take your time, baby. You move as slow as you want. And here…” Yixing leaned over a little to grab the bottle of lube from the nightstand, the supply significantly diminished since Jongdae’s arrival the night before. He snapped the lid open and held it at an angle, offering it to Jongdae. “I want you to feel good.” Heat, almost smoky in its tone, swelled in Yixing’s voice as he spoke, contrasting with Jongdae’s breathy exhalations. “I want you to enjoy yourself, okay?”

        Jongdae blinked, and took his hand away from Yixing’s cock, opening his palm for a dribbled pool of liquid. Their eyes stayed linked as Jongdae held onto Yixing’s shoulder and let his slick hand return to slick up the length of him, adding pressure as he gained confidence. Yixing resisted the urge to buck his hips up into Jongdae’s hand, focusing instead on the glistening head of Jongdae’s cock, which was bobbing in the air in front of him, begging for release. _All mine. He is all mine._

        After a few more increasingly rhythmic strokes, Yixing brought a hand up to Jongdae’s jaw, gripping with a slight pressure, forcing Jongdae’s attention back up. Yixing smiled, an edge to his expression that sent Jongdae’s pulse off course again.

        “I want to see you ride me, baby. Fuck yourself on my cock.”

        “Yes, daddy.” It came out in a rush, Jongdae’s voice high and crackling. And like before, he held the base of Yixing’s erection, steadied himself above, and lowered his hips.

        Instead of the stuttered, hesitant pause from the first time, though, when Yixing felt his cock touch Jongdae’s hole, it was warm, wet, and fucking perfect. Jongdae’s fingers dug in slightly along Yixing’s shoulder as he moaned, thin and desperate. He was so inexperienced, only seventeen, and Yixing knew that it would be painful to be stretched like this without any prep, but Jongdae had so adamantly asked, he wanted to see how far he was willing to go.

        Yixing watched Jongdae’s expression as the boy worked his way through the tension in his gut. With some effort, the tight, resistant muscles in his ass gave just a little, allowing a fraction of the Yixing’s swollen cockhead to breach past the first ring, earning him a flurry of reassuring little whispers from Yixing. Jongdae cried out at the pressure, but he did not stop, lowering his now trembling hips a little more, taking in Yixing just past the raised lip of the head. It burned; it felt like he was being punched in the stomach, and Jongdae craved more; he had to earn Yixing’s praise, his protection, his love.

        His muscles reacted, protesting the intrusion, and Yixing felt the squeeze, the urgent choke around him. _Holy fuck he’s so tight._ He saw sweat beading on Jongdae’s forehead, a grimace marring his gorgeous, flawless face, mirroring torturous, untouchable dreams that haunted him nightly.

        “Baby, you look _so_ good. Don’t stop.” And Jongdae listened, his heart thrumming at the sweet, strong sound of Yixing’s voice carrying him through the pain.

        He lowered his hips more, taking in an inch more of the shaft, then flexed his thighs to raise up again. The raking slip of Yixing inside him, the burn in his legs as he balanced himself, the shred of control Yixing gave him to dictate the pace felt like fireworks. A hot wave of pleasure hit him hard and he dropped down lower, faster, letting his jaw fall open, a guttural, primal moan dripping from his tongue.

        Yixing watched, hands gripping hips, as Jongdae worked himself open on his cock, lifted his hips slowly, pulling up and gripping Yixing _so tight_ , then releasing his screaming leg muscles, sinking down to be stretched a little more, a little more, _more, more._

        Jongdae let go of Yixing’s cock as he started to gain momentum, pressing the heel of his hand to Yixing’s chest for better balance. The creases in his forehead relaxed as he adjusted to Yixing’s girth inside him, forcing his muscles into a gritty, harsh, incredible stretch. He took a few breaths, enjoying the ease of his movements, and let himself open his eyes.

        Yixing’s expression, watching him take his cock this way, was exactly the fuel Jongdae thirsted for, and as they read each other, Jongdae knew his own face mirrored Yixing’s. He hadn’t been lying before; he would do anything, anything to deserve this man. He’d endure any pain, he’d enjoy, even beg for every ache, if he could just hold onto that heavy-lidded, strained, blissed out vision on Yixing’s face, the possessive, safe grip of Yixing’s hands on him.

        Jongdae ran his fingers across Yixing’s chest a little, brushing across a hard nipple, before dropping his hips again, as far as he could go. His ass hit the top of Yixing’s legs as he fucked himself for his daddy, the impact of Yixing’s head against some precum-slicked wall inside him sending radiating, rapturous pain through every nerve.

        Yixing grunted, feeling Jongdae’s torturously tight walls convulse around him.

        “Oh god, daddy!”

        “Unh, baby, don’t stop. You’re so good, fucking yourself on my cock.”

        “You feel so good, daddy. I feel so full – ” Jongdae leaned back, grabbing at Yixing’s hands around his waist, and started to rock just a little, sitting flush against Yixing, rotating and swiveling his hips experimentally. A thrilling tremor of friction exploded in Jongdae’s ass as Yixing’s thick, lubed cock hit every minute edge of him. Yixing propped his legs up slightly, supporting Jongdae on his thighs as his movements smoothed out, his slim hips rolling so sweetly, so earnestly in Yixing’s lap.

        “You like that? You like riding me like this?”

        “Oh god, yes!”

        “Is this what you wanted, baby?”

        Jongdae dragged his hips up again, bracing on Yixing’s legs, raising himself slowly off Yixing’s shaft almost all the way, enjoying the euphoric sensation, then sank back down hard, feeling Yixing drilling him. He rolled his hips again, grating against Yixing, searching for that sore, deep target inside him that Yixing had found so easily last night. Trying again, he lifted up slowly, then pounded back down, grinding his pelvis down, wrecked breaths howling out of him.

        “Yes! Yes, daddy, I love your cock. I love your cock inside me, daddy, please!”

        A running drop of sweat fell from just under Jongdae’s ear down his neck, but Yixing was too overwhelmed to see it. He couldn’t take his eyes away from the satisfying, incomprehensible visions of his cock disappearing into Jongdae’s needy ass and Jongdae’s own cock, hanging heavy with anticipation above his stomach. _The view will be even better than it was last night,_ Yixing thought, as he felt himself nearing release as well.

        Jongdae kept at it, scrambling through the ache in his ass to find that specific pressure, that shock of pleasure that numbed the rest of his body. Yixing angled his hips up, lifting off the bed a fraction, and Jongdae rode faster, back and forth, pawing again at Yixing’s chest for balance.

        “Daddyyyy – ” Jongdae whined, his muscles contracting around Yixing. But he slowed, just a little, and looked down at his lover. “Daddy, please. I want to come. Can I?”

        Yixing realized again that he held some strange, foreign power here, some special benevolence over Jongdae. It was as if coming was a privilege that he could offer Jongdae if he behaved, if he _earned it_. But Yixing felt his own needs, his own desires being fulfilled by the glowing, perfect boy on top of him. Jongdae’s submission allowed them to give to each other in a mutually deep, vulnerable way.

        So Yixing reached a hand out, lightly pulsing his fingers around Jongdae’s dripping cock, ready to give Jongdae anything, everything he needed.

        “Oh god, yes, Jongdae. Come. I want to see you come.” But Jongdae didn’t rev up his movements again. Instead, he wrapped his fingers around Yixing’s wrist and forced his hand away.

        “No, daddy. I don’t need that.” His voice was light, childish again, thinned out from exertion. “Let me do it, okay, daddy? Please?”

        “Yeah?” Jongdae’s brows tilted up, a little surprised.

        “Mhmmm.” Jongdae began bobbing up and down on Yixing again. “Just stay there, daddy. Don’t move.” He sped up, hitching his hips again, grinding his ass down to take all of Yixing in. “I’m gonna come, daddy, don’t move.” He kept talking, whining out nonsense as he abused himself on Yixing.

        Yixing let his hands return to Jongdae, holding him steady as words gave way to incoherent mewlings.

        Jongdae’s movement grew more urgent, more erratic, and then he was gasping, his release spilling out onto Yixing’s flat, defined stomach, his ass tightening around Yixing, convulsing through an intense, ripping orgasm. Yixing savored every detail: the gorgeous, dark color around Jongdae’s cockhead, the milky white of his release, the visible strain in his leg muscles, how his entrance shuddering around the base of Yixing’s cock in the aftershocks, the heady scent of their sex hanging in the air, the lax hang of his bottom lip, revealing a soundless open mouth. Each of these things drove Yixing closer to his own orgasm; he was so close, seeing how wrecked Jongdae was, _fucking himself on Yixing._

        “Daddy… daddy…” Jongdae gasped out the name, much softer than before. “Fuck me, daddy. Please. Please come.”

        Jongdae tipped forward a little, extending his arms up to brace against the wall above Yixing, holding his skinny body steady. Yixing bucked his hips up once, slamming harder than he’d meant to up inside Jongdae, the anticipation getting the better of him. Jongdae’s lungs emptied in a huff, and as he caught his breath, he dug his nails into the wall.

        “Again! Make it hurt, daddy!” Yixing didn’t stop to think. He held Jongdae by the hips and thrust into him again, again.

        “Yes! Harder, please!”

        “That’s right, baby. You take it. You’re so fucking good, Jongdae. _Such_ a good boy. You feel so good.” Yixing jacked his hips up, meeting Jongdae’s aching ass every time, angled just right to really beat against Jongdae’s bruised core. Tears mingled with sweat on Jongdae’s face as he whispered Yixing’s name up toward the ceiling.

        The coil in Yixing’s gut threatened to snap as he brought Jongdae’s hips down in tandem with his thrusts. Despite his lifelong, closeted curiosity, he had never had rough sex before, never had the guts to cross that boundary, but there was something about the gaping ecstasy on Jongdae’s face that conjured some hidden deviance in Yixing’s blood.

        “Yes! Ah! Ah! Yixing, yes! Fuck me!” Yixing powered through the vibrations in his muscles, the singular static that filled his ears, fucking into Jongdae, watching him twitch and writhe above him as another, thinner stream of come slipped out of him, punctuated by a shredded sob. It was enough to send him over the edge himself, his own release buried deep in Jongdae’s trashed ass.

        They rocked together for another few seconds as their senses returned to them slowly. Yixing felt the crashing heat start to subside, and he lowered himself back down, flat on his bed, and helped Jongdae slowly off to lie down beside him, spent and silent.

        “How do you feel, baby?” Jongdae’s breathing was still a little labored, his eyes closed. Yixing’s hands hovered over him protectively, triggering a flashback to a similar scene in his kitchen, a swell of the same unbalanced mix of concern, lust, and fascination replacing the carnal, dominant mindset of the past few minutes. He brushed a sweaty stand of hair off Jongdae’s forehead as his eyes fluttered open, unfocused.

        “Daddy – ”

        “Mm? What is it, little one?” Yixing ran his fingers lightly along Jongdae’s body absently, unconsciously, his eyes still focused on Jongdae’s fucked out expression, his rapid pulse visible below his ear.

        “It hurts. I hurt all over.”

        A shiver of panic shook through Yixing’s skin like ice water. _Shit, I went too far. I thought he could handle it. Fuck I didn’t know what I was doing and I went too far._

        “I – I’m so sorry, Jongdae, I didn’t mean to hurt you – ”

        “No, no, daddy!” Jongdae’s eyes focused on Yixing, a sharper, more direct gaze than Yixing was expecting. He looked completely wasted, exhausted, and… _amused_? Yixing wrinkled his brow in confusion, eliciting a little smirk at the edge of Jongdae’s lips.

        “I love it. I wanted you to do this to me, remember?” Jongdae lifted an eyebrow, a devious little challenge. He turned over onto his back, sprawling childishly out across the sheets, stretching his aching, sweaty body gingerly, arching his back, slowly curling and relaxing his toes, grumbling a little as he did so. Yixing watched, distracted by the teasing display, but tried to understand the seemingly mixed signals Jongdae was feeding him.

        “I can hear you overthinking.” Jongdae let an arm flop onto the bed and felt around until his found Yixing’s wrist. “Come here, daddy. Touch me. Make me feel better.”

        And all Yixing could do was gratefully, wholeheartedly oblige.

\--- --- ---

        They spent the morning lying in bed together, coming down from their mutual high, tangled up and cozy. Yixing massaged Jongdae’s tired muscles with greedy, nurturing hands as they talked, attending carefully to his lingering aches and pains. He traced the features of his face with his pointer finger, delighting in the sweet curves of his lips, the baby hairs growing in along his temples, the funny tunnels of his ears, Jongdae giggling and cooing all the while.

        Yixing brought them coffee, which Jongdae sipped with two hands wrapped around the mug, Yixing upright against his pillows, Jongdae nestled against his chest. The happy cloud around them remained for a few more hours; they spoke like children do, open, and without thought of responsibility or consequence. Jongdae mused about the places they might travel to together, Yixing listening with giddy, airy bemusement. He played with Jongdae’s hair, that gorgeous golden stuff that fell softly above little pink ears. Jongdae hummed and tilted his head, exposing his neck. Yixing observed the pale lines, the soft skin there illuminated by the midday sun through Yixing’s bedroom window. A thought, vivid and sudden, flashed before his eyes.

        “Baby…”

        “Mhm?” Jongdae nuzzled his cheek into Yixing’s bare chest.

        “You know what I was just thinking?” He ran a finger over Jongdae’s angled neck, down his shoulder. “You would look so good with tattoos, baby.”

        Jongdae inhaled drowsily, then turned to look at Yixing, his eyebrows crumpled together at the center.

        “What made you think of that?”

        “I don’t know, actually…” Yixing looked at Jongdae’s naked torso, lean and pale, covered at the hips by rumpled sheets. And as if Jongdae had spent the necessary endless hours under a needle, Yixing saw, so clearly, a landscape of intricate, vibrant ink, painted like a mural across his shoulders, striped down his ribcage, curving around his wrists and behind his neck. “I just… you’re beautiful, your body is so beautiful…” Jongdae bit his lip at the compliments. “I can see them. I can see all these designs on you. You’d wear them so well… I don’t know…” Yixing wanted to freeze the image before him, trace every line with his tongue to taste Jongdae’s flawless, art-covered skin, but he suddenly lost confidence as he realized how random he likely sounded.

        But Jongdae smiled, looking up through thick eyelashes into Yixing’s embarrassed expression. He scooted himself around from under the covers, laying down perpendicular to Yixing, resting his head on the elder’s thigh. He looked down at his body for a second, considering, then back up to Yixing, innocent curiosity across his face.

        “Tell me. Tell me what you see, daddy.”

 _So good to me. How did I find someone who looks like you, who_ fucks _like you, and who indulges me like this?_ Yixing grinned to himself (one of Jongdae’s very favorite of Yixing’s quirks; it was adorable, since it seemed like Yixing thought no one could see him in that little happy moment, alone in his thoughts), and let his words transcribe his vision: sharp, staccato patterns around his thin arms, accentuating growing muscles; detailed, colorful blooms creeping up his neck like an unruly garden; the phases of the moon lining the ridged stripe of his spine; fish and birds gliding up his forearms, and a fox, dark and cunning, wrapped around his waist. Yixing spoke softly, etching every picture into the appropriate area on Jongdae’s exposed body. Jongdae listened, watching Yixing play with him, his heart overflowing with affection.

        “What about something… about us?” Yixing had made his way to Jongdae’s ankles, petting him with the utmost care, when Jongdae spoke up. Yixing looked up as Jongdae turned over onto his stomach, craning his neck around to keep eyes contact, his pale, perfect ass, so recently bruised, bare and teasing for Yixing’s benefit.

        “What do you mean?” Yixing placed Jongdae’s ankle back down onto the bed, stroking his hands up Jongdae’s calves slowly, watching as the pleasurable touch caused the boy’s eyes to close for a second or two longer.

        Jongdae refocused. “I mean, what would I get to represent us? What’s something that would remind me of you?”

        Yixing puzzled for a minute, kneading his hands into Jongdae’s tired leg muscles. Jongdae hummed, fighting the urge to simply submit to the tactile euphoria of Yixing’s hands on him and close his eyes. He pressed on, genuinely curious for an answer.

        “If you could tattoo me… if you could…” Jongdae seemed to be choosing his words carefully. Yixing found the little furrow in his brow irresistible and walked his fingers up the backs of Jongdae’s thighs up to the relaxed little hills of his behind. He pressed his hands unto the flesh slowly, testing Jongdae’s recovery. Jongdae did close his eyes, his mouth tight together, spread into a satisfied little smile, as Yixing started to work any remaining tension out of him, his fingers skilled and gentle.

        “If I could what, baby?” Yixing contained the laughter from his voice the best he could as Jongdae’s mouth fell open a little; Yixing massaged more firmly, palming Jongdae’s ass with kind hands, a growing, sizzling tingle pulling taut right at the base of Jongdae’s spine.

        “If you could…” Jongdae spoke as if he was already dreaming, his voice thick and slow. “If you could…” Yixing smiled and pressed his thumbs into muscle, releasing quickly, a delicious shiver running up Jongdae’s back at the sensation.

        “If I could tattoo you…” Yixing prompted again, delighting in Jongdae’s uncontrolled little writhing. But Jongdae slithered out from Yixing’s ministrations, tucking his legs under him and retreating up toward the pillows. Yixing laughed openly. “Too much, baby? I’m sorry.”

        “Stop distracting me!” Jongdae fake pouted, his lovely bottom lip protruding out toward Yixing.

        “I’m sorry,” Yixing repeated, holding up his hands in surrender. He eyed Jongdae’s lips though, and found himself shifting forward, taking Jongdae’s face in his hands, and kissing away the annoyed expression, soft lips speaking as eloquently as any words.

        Yixing let his lips wander down to Jongdae’s neck and chest, lightly pressing kisses across Jongdae’s skin.

        “Go ahead, baby, ask your question. I’m listening.”

        Jongdae was still determining how exactly to phrase his question, calming himself by braiding his fingers in Yixing’s dark, messy hair.

        “If you could tattoo me, if you could… mark me in some way, something that would show that I’m yours… what would it be?”

        Yixing kept kissing, but his mind kicked into gear, processing the sentiment beneath the question.

_Something that would show that I’m yours…_

        “I mean, I don’t know if I’d ever get a tattoo, but if I did, I’d want it to mean something, you know?” Jongdae continued, allowing Yixing time to think. “And I like the idea of you being on my body in some way.” Yixing licked a thin line up the middle of Jongdae’s stomach, over his sternum, across his clavicle. “Like a signature, or a…” Yixing nibbled at the soft arc of Jongdae’s shoulder. “…symbol. Something that binds me to you.” Yixing’s teeth scraped Jongdae’s skin a little harder, then he kissed the area, sucking enough to redden the skin underneath. Jongdae turned his head at the sensation, realizing what Yixing was doing. A flare of tension roiled in his gut; this is exactly what he was craving. He let out a small moan as Yixing manipulated one more little patch of skin between his lips, just under his collarbone, sucking hard for a few seconds. When he let it go, a purplish bruise had already started to bloom across Jongdae’s skin. The sight flooded Jongdae with pleasure.

        “Is that what you want, little one? You want me to… mark you?” Jongdae nodded vigorously, unable to take his eyes away from the small hickey.

        “Daddy, I want you written on me everywhere. I want to be yours in every way. If you marked me permanently…” Jongdae tore his eyes away from his own skin, sinking into Yixing’s own affectionate, heated gaze.

        “Well how about you let me think of something worthy, okay? Will this do for now, baby?” Yixing caressed the newly branded bruise with soft fingers.

        “Yes, daddy. But… I want more. Please, daddy, let me have more.” Jongdae snuck a hand down Yixing’s abdomen, reaching down to grope at Yixing’s already half-hard cock.

 _Insatiable may be tame for this kid,_ Yixing thought as he buried his face in Jongdae’s neck, biting and kissing in just the same way he’d dreamed in this very bed, a few desperate weeks ago.


	6. Chapter 6

        Jongdae lie asleep under unruly, stained sheets, his limbs sprawled out haphazardly. Little whistling breaths escaped his parted lips as he napped, and Yixing took a mental picture of the worn out, angelic innocence of the boy who had so ruined him irredeemably.

        Yixing had just hopped out of a steamy, refreshing shower, donned a pair of straight jeans and a loose white tee, and wandered out to his kitchen, leaving Jongdae to sleep a little longer. He selected an apple as a well-earned snack (his own muscles were lagging from his and Jongdae’s marathon), and as he walked behind his counter to wash it, he saw his cell phone, still abandoned on the floor beside the refrigerator, screen black and ominous. _Right. Sorry, phone._

        Yixing leaned down to pick it up, recalling the circumstances that led to his flinging it across the room. He flicked his eyes over to his bedroom, the door cracked, revealing the folds of white sheets, and his exhausted, empty, perfect boy who lie beneath. _What a difference a day makes._ He shook his head, plugged in his phone to coax it back to life.

        Chewing the tart flesh of the apple, he powered his phone on, thumbing a thin, spidery crack in the top right corner. _At least it still works_ , he rolled his eyes, berating last evening’s uncharacteristic short-sightedness.

        The screen lit up, revealing a series of texts from Chanyeol and one from Baekhyun.

        Yixing laughed at the ridiculous insistence from his friend ( _hyung… did you call him yet? is that why you aren’t answering?? are you boning yet??? hyung?! HYUNG!!!_ ), and the singular, concise apology from Baekhyun on Chanyeol’s behalf. He sent Baek a single smiling emoji, then left his phone to charge on the counter.

        Yixing walked across the room to his rain-soaked balcony with light, easy steps. He remembered the haze of the last month, the oppressive quality he had felt pressing in from every corner of this apartment, and realized it had wholly dispersed since Jongdae had re-entered his life. Smiling, he opened the door, the front of him illuminated by little glinting sunbeams off hot, mirrored puddles. He stood in the doorway, one arm raised to grasp the top frame, the other holding his half-finished apple, and stretched out into the sunshine, avoiding getting his toes wet. His street was busy with people, though it didn’t hold quite as much intrigue for him as usual. For once, he found his own life plenty absorbing. His eyes retreated back from the people below, settling on his chairs. His mind immediately leapt back in time, past the weeks of torture, the guilt, the self-loathing, all the way back to Jongdae, tucked up in his arms, breath heavy in his ears, bringing him to life with a single word. Yixing smiled unconsciously, grateful that the void Jongdae had left in his life that afternoon, the one he himself had forced, was now filled and brimming over, resolved. And it was far better than he’d dared to imagine.

        Not that this was going to be easy, now that they’d both voiced their feelings for one another. Yixing had toiled over every possibility for weeks, wondering if there was a future in which he could love Jongdae the way he deserved, fully and without restraint, openly, honestly. But an eleven-year-age-gap was a steep one, and however giddy and fulfilled he felt about Jongdae, however much Yixing yearned to share his life with this kid, he was hung up on that very fact every time he thought about any potential relationship: _Jongdae was a kid_ , legally speaking, even if only for another few weeks.

        Despite that obvious reality, the real sting of the issue had dissipated; this was no longer a crisis, a plague with no cure. Rather, as Yixing had realized slumped on his kitchen floor yesterday, Jongdae was inevitable. Yixing felt his heart swell, thinking about the days to come. Instead of forcing himself to erase Jongdae from his life, to deny himself his most potent need as he had foolishly attempted the last month, Yixing’s mind launched greedily into the possibilities of life with love, life shared with someone equally invested. Yixing smiled again, the acidic apple taste on his tongue a little sweeter, imagining all the ways he might start living his life for Jongdae, for his little one.

        He bit into the apple again, an errant drop of juice escaping the edge of his lips, slipping down his chin. He wiped away the liquid and licked his finger quickly, the potent memory of Jongdae’s own lips around his fingers the night before, his tongue tracing knuckles and pads, blinking heavy-lidded eyes bashfully at Yixing. Despite the heat of the sun, Yixing shivered. He chewed the last few bites of his breakfast quickly, eager to return to his bedroom, to be there, beside Jongdae when he woke.

        Toting his phone with him, Yixing padded back to his bed, easing onto the mattress as smoothly as he could. He watched Jongdae’s chest rise and fall as he slept on, resisting the urge to lift him into his arms and hold him close. His eyes kept moving, taking in the little marks lining Jongdae’s neck and shoulder. A flush seeped into Yixing’s cheeks, remembering how it felt to hold a piece of his boy between his teeth, testing the line between pain and pleasure, possessing Jongdae in such a carnal, tactile way. Seeing the evidence of his desire dotting Jongdae’s skin, the proof of their connection, of their commitment in some way, Yixing reeled.

 _This is how it’s supposed to feel._ After weeks, really years (he heard Chanyeol’s poking, lovingly condescending voice correcting him) of loneliness, confusion, and dissonant emotions, Yixing felt aligned. He had fallen down the rabbit hole for Jongdae, trusting that it would not be worth the pain at the bottom, but rather he’d welcome it. Now, Yixing felt two distinct needs at once, those two compatible urges deep in his gut, watching Jongdae float in shallow sleep next to him – passion and protection. He wanted Jongdae desperately, urgently. He wanted his body for his own in a way he’d thought impossible; but he also wanted his faithfulness, his submission. He wanted Jongdae to _obey_ , not to control him or take anything from him, but so that Jongdae could _rely_ on Yixing. Seeing the lovely red arcs on his skin, the brands of their shared ecstasy and vulnerability, Jongdae was Yixing’s muse _and_ his responsibility, his lover _and_ his charge. And Yixing wanted so badly to be all things for Jongdae in that moment. To serve him in any way he asked, to give him everything, to shelter and pleasure and nurture him.

        Yixing’s phone buzzed, lifting him out of his idealistic reverie and causing Jongdae to stir slightly. Yixing hastily covered his phone with his hand, muffling the tone. He flipped it in his hand after a minute, revealing a flurry of texts from Chanyeol.

_hyung, you fuck!!!_

_i’m going to assume that emoji means u called jd?????_

_congrats on what im sure is super kinky nasty sex_

_if u surface anytime soon, call me_

_b and i want to take u 2 out so we can interrogate jd properly_

        Chanyeol had punctuated his texts with the tongue-out emoji, along with, inexplicably, the eggplant and peach. Yixing filed those away to ask about later, turning back to Jongdae, whose eyes were flickering open. Yixing sighed and tuned out the world to dote on his boy as he broke through the surface of sleep.


	7. Chapter 7

        Jongdae took his time in the shower, while Yixing sat on the edge of his bed, phone in hand.

        Another benefit of Baekhyun and Chanyeol being an item again was the enjoyment and convenience of Baek’s proven, pre-approved friend status. He and Yixing had always gotten along quite well, however odd it was to have him pop in and out of Yixing’s life depending on his status with Chanyeol. Yixing’s loyalty was to Chanyeol first, but he always went through his own minor withdrawal when they’d call it quits again. Despite his interval involvement though, Yixing trusted Baek, even more so now, after Yixing’s sensitive, emotional confession a few nights before.

        So, in an effort to temporarily avoid the nuisance of Chanyeol’s puppy-like exuberance, inevitable as evidenced by his texts, Yixing instead called a relieved and appropriately congratulatory Baekhyun. They chatted briefly, Yixing holding back the juiciest details with some difficulty, grinning like a fool as he recounted the last day, and they made plans for the four of them to meet up that Friday night for dinner. In the middle of telling Baek a PG version of his morning, Yixing heard Chanyeol’s voice growing louder on the other end. He quickly said goodbye to Baek and pressed red, cheating Chanyeol out of any first-hand dirty details.

        Yixing sat back on his bed, watching the cracked door of his bathroom and listening to the cheery little song Jongdae was humming beyond it. He didn’t recognize the song; he wondered if it was normally sung by a female, since the range was quite high, but Jongdae’s lovely clear voice was well-suited to it. From the haven of steam and soap, Jongdae lilted through the unfamiliar tune, unintentionally reminding Yixing of the life Jongdae led outside this apartment.

        Yixing wanted more than anything to hold onto the young, blissed out feeling Jongdae brought out in him. He wanted to look forward to their double date with Chanyeol and Baekhyun. He wanted to cook for Jongdae, take long, drawn-out showers with him, and read to him late into the night. He wanted Jongdae to stay and never leave. He wanted to ignore the rational, scolding voice behind his overwhelming happiness just a little longer, but questions began to crop up like weeds in his head, questions that did not fit with the idyllic dream he and Jongdae had been enjoying since their reunion.

        Like, did Jongdae’s mother know where he was? And wouldn’t she worry if he was away too long?

        What job forced her to neglect Jongdae like this, and had it always been this way?

        And more urgently, what obligations did he have in his own life that Yixing needed to respect? His stomach turned a bit when he realized it was a weekday, and not only had he played hooky from work, but it was likely that Jongdae was missing school.

        The thought spun in his head, and Yixing felt a little dizzy. Jongdae was in high school. He had homework. And friends. And teachers who were likely Yixing’s age.

        The shower turned off as Yixing’s panic caused him to pace around the room. He’d been short-sighted. _Again_. He couldn’t just call Jongdae and ask him to drop everything for him. Yixing’s life had spiraled into a shambles without Jongdae, but he had _no idea_ what Jongdae’s life was like without him. He’d assumed, given Jongdae’s enthusiasm, his emotional sincerity, since his arrival that perhaps he’d been as miserable as Yixing had been, that he’d also felt crushing emptiness and haunting desperation.

        But… what if he was wrong?

        Cold worry shattered Yixing’s joy like lightening, his own mistakes and miscalculations striking again and again.

 _I was so eager to see him. I was so wrapped up in him that I’ve done exactly what I feared._ Yixing brought his hands to his hair, gripping the air-dried, black strands harshly. _I was so fucking determined to live out my fucking fantasy that I didn’t care what I was stealing him away from._ He walked past his open bathroom door again and heard Jongdae’s voice, still humming that soft melody that drove Yixing further into his hysteria.

        He thought back to the day he’d driven Jongdae home. He tried to remember the house, the small, plain box that had been barely a forgettable backdrop for the vibrant regret and sadness that linked himself to Jongdae. Had there been a car out front? Were there curtains on the windows? He wracked his brain, trying to recall details. He sat back down on his bed, the heels of his hands pressed into his eyes, when he heard Jongdae emerge from the bathroom. Yixing lifted his head after a beat, his vision of Jongdae in front of him blurred by a thin gloss of tears.

        “Yixing? What is it?” Jongdae, a towel wrapped around his lower half, knelt on the floor in front of Yixing, his water-softened hands resting on Yixing’s arms. He peered up into Yixing’s troubled eyes, mirroring their concern.

        “I – ” Yixing struggled to organize his manic realizations, particularly with a mostly naked, pristine Jongdae, kneeling at his feet. But what had been a teasing, tempting innocence an hour ago was now just genuine youth, evidence of Yixing’s selfishness in holding this boy hostage from the life he might be living. “I need you to tell me about your life. You’re seventeen, and even if I’m okay with that, and you’re okay with that, I can’t just keep you here. I can’t – ” His voice faltered as he tried to verbalize his panic.

        “Daddy…” Jongdae’s finger wrapped around Yixing’s wrists, trying to move closer, but Yixing stood, forcing distance between them. He stood in front of the window, faced with the world he’d been ignoring, still moving along while he denied time from behind the glass.

        “Why aren’t you in school, Jongdae?” His voice was low as he asked the questions he couldn’t ignore anymore. “How come you were able to come over here so quickly after I called yesterday?” He paused, turning to look at Jongdae, still kneeling on the floor, expression confused and… _what? Worried?_ _Guilty?_ Yixing kept going, reaching the questions he was most afraid of asking. “And what about your family? Why don’t you want to go home? And why were you at that bar that night?” The barrier of his eyelashes gave way, letting a tear fall down his face, collecting at the corner of his mouth.

        “Jongdae. What’s going on?”


	8. Chapter 8

        “I’ve been lying to you.”

        The words were barely audible from Jongdae’s lips as he sat on the end of Yixing’s bed, posture slumped, fingers worrying the drawstring of the sweatpants he’d hastily thrown on after Yixing’s barrage of questions. Yixing still stood at the window, watching Jongdae closely. He forced himself to stay put, resisting the ever-present urge to go to Jongdae, to prop up his shaky, small, sad boy, all crumpled in on himself under the pressure of this moment.

        Yixing waited for Jongdae to continue, though the younger sat silently, averting his eyes down to the floor.

        “Okay.” Yixing tried to keep his voice even, neither comforting nor threatening. “Then tell me the truth now.”

        Jongdae nervously wrapped the drawstring around his fingers, his knuckles alternating reddish purple and anemic white.

        “I’ve been lying about my family. It’s not just me and my mom.”

        His voice was thick, tremulous. Yixing took a step forward automatically, then held himself back again. _Let him talk._

        “My father – ” Jongdae’s words stalled again. He let the drawstring fall from his fingers and brought his hands up to his hairline, his stress and worry spoken wordlessly as he covered his eyes.

        “Your dad lives with you?” Another pause.

        "Yeah. My mom does travel a lot, that was true, and whenever she’s gone, he… ”

        An inkling of disgust replaced Yixing’s earlier panic. He wished Jongdae would spit it out; the dark, twisted possibilities popping up like jump scares in those horror movies Chanyeol liked were making him feel increasingly nauseated.

        “He what, baby?”

        The small word of affection escaped Yixing without him realizing it. He couldn’t help himself. Even against hypothetical ghosts and imagined terrors, Yixing had to protect Jongdae. Looming worry and anger coiled in his gut as he waited for an answer, waited for the enemy to be revealed, but Jongdae kept silent. Yixing watched his hands drop to his knees heavily, then a visible shudder shake his small frame. Another soundless second, and Jongdae was sobbing.

        As he had in that filthy bar bathroom, Yixing’s body moved faster than his brain. As Jongdae started to fall forward, body quaking with his cries, Yixing was already there, arms open, pulling Jongdae into the very heart of him. They sprawled on the floor, Jongdae curled up as small as he could manage in Yixing’s embrace. Yixing didn’t speak; rather he let his fingers express his patience, his acceptance, his stability, and more than anything else, his love.

        A few strained minutes passed. Jongdae clutched at Yixing’s arms, clamoring for something to hold onto, a buoy in the storm of neglected reality. Through a few residual tears, he soldiered on.

        “My mom is gone for two, sometimes three weeks of the month overseas. She knows he drinks, but she doesn’t know how bad it gets when she’s away.” He let the words tumble out of his mouth quickly, half-muffled in his own sleeve. “I don’t tell her because I don’t want her to worry. It’s just… I should be able to handle it on my own. It’s not her problem. And she couldn’t do anything about it even if she did know. So… I just stay away when he gets like that.”

        Yixing’s mind worked quickly, trying to put these new pieces into place so he could respond, but alarm won out.

        “Is he dangerous?” Jongdae’s fingers held onto Yixing a little tighter, suggesting the answer.

        “Not if I’m not there…” A soggy laugh snuck up between their bodies, but Jongdae continued to cling to Yixing. “That’s why I go out sometimes. To bars, I mean. If I can avoid being home when he’s…” His voice was quiet again, slogging through a story Yixing figured few people knew about. “I don’t drink much, it’s more about just being around all those people. I don’t know. It felt safer… Until I got jumped in a bathroom. But then I met you, and now I feel like… I don’t know… like I have a future or something.”

        Yixing unconsciously lowered his head and pressed his lips into golden waves. When he pulled away, Jongdae looked up, his flawless face blotchy and damp. _Beautiful, even like this._

        Reluctantly, Yixing sidestepped the distraction of Jongdae’s swollen, rosy bottom lip and the sweet words it formed, and aimed for more answers. _I can’t help him if I don’t know the full story._

        “Baby. Can you tell me… what he does to you? What happens when he drinks?”

        Jongdae’s eyes darkened, flashing with what Yixing hoped wasn’t betrayal at the invasive, barbed question. But he sniffled and gathered himself, adjusting his limbs so he could sit facing Yixing, his legs wrapped around Yixing’s waist.

        “He… he comes after me. Sometimes it’s just yelling, and I can ignore him, but when he gets really drunk he…” Jongdae’s eyes skittered around the room, avoiding Yixing, as he wrestled with his thoughts. “He attacks me. He sort of… hunts me down and yells at me and he hits me. Most of the time I can get away, but he’s bigger than me, and…” His voice died, his traumatic memories suffocating him.

        “How bad is it?” Yixing urged him gently to continue.

        “I can take it if it’s just him hitting me. But sometimes he… he’ll come at me with a bottle, or a belt or something. He knocked me out a few months ago when he threw a lamp. I woke up and I didn’t remember what had happened, and he’d just left me there.” Jongdae’s expression was blank when he finally looked back at Yixing, who had stopped breathing. “Yixing…”

        Yixing let out his trapped breath, willing his sudden urge to weep for Jongdae back down from his throat.

        “I’m… _so_ sorry.” Yixing voice was a hoarse whisper, all he could manage in the wake of Jongdae’s ugly truth.

        The corner of Jongdae’s lip turned up minutely.

        “I know.” His hands reached up Yixing’s neck, his touch careful, almost fragile. “I am, too. I shouldn’t have lied to you, but… I didn’t want you to pity me. I liked you from the second I saw you in that bar.” Jongdae’s fingers crawled up Yixing skin, just barely brushing the hair behind his ears. “I knew you were different, so I couldn’t tell you. I couldn’t risk it. I wanted you to like me without all… this.” He rolled his neck for effect, as if reeling from his own recounted tragedy. The combination of the cute motion, his sharply flushed cheeks and nose, and his thoughtful flattery struck a now familiar chord in Yixing. He was adorable, and young, and more deprived than Yixing had understood before. And he was here. Safe. Loved.

        Yixing searched Jongdae’s eyes, wary that this might not be the whole story. But Jongdae looked unburdened in his arms, satisfying Yixing’s concern. He returned the small smile edging at Jongdae’s mouth.

        “I understand. But I’m glad you told me. Now I really know you – and maybe I can help you.” Yixing didn’t know exactly how he’d go about doing that, but Jongdae’s eyes lit up, as if he’d been hoping for those words.

        “You’re not… you don’t want me to leave?”

        _Leave? Why – how could I let him leave now?_

        “Of course not!” Yixing felt Jongdae’s bones settle, his body relaxing in response to Yixing’s answer. His hips sunk into Yixing’s lap a little more as his fingers dragged down Yixing’s neck a few inches. He closed his eyes, visibly relieved.

         “I thought maybe… you’d think I was too much trouble. Like I wouldn’t be worth it.”

        Jongdae’s words hit Yixing like a slap.

_He’s afraid. He lied because he’s afraid. He’s being abused and he’s afraid and he needs to be loved and he has no idea how badly I need him. He has no idea how he’s changed me already._

        “Look at me.”

        Jongdae’s lashes fanned out as he opened his eyes again, hesitant but hopeful under Yixing’s intense, resolute gaze.

        “It’s not your fault that this happened to you. Hear me, now. You deserve so much better than this.” Every word felt, for both of them, like a vow as Yixing spoke. “I just hope _I_ can be good enough for you, little one. I’ve fallen for you, and I swear, I can’t think of anything that would change that. No matter what happened in your past, no matter where you’ve been, I promise to protect you the best I can from now on.” Yixing tilted forward, touching his forehead to Jongdae’s, earning the smallest, sweetest laugh from his boy. “I just ask that you tell me what you need. Don’t keep things from me, okay?” He angled his face up slightly, letting his lips rest on Jongdae’s forehead, speaking the words softly into his skin. “You don’t have to hide anymore. Not here. Not with me.”

        Yixing breathed in Jongdae’s angelic scent, hoping his words would be enough, at least for now. His lips lingered on Jongdae’s forehead; he felt at home here, in this protective, nurturing pose, offering Jongdae his best. But soon Jongdae shifted underneath him, pulling away a fraction. Yixing stilled.

        “Can I – can I still call you daddy?” Jongdae’s eyebrows were lifted, a slight embarrassed angle to them. Yixing swallowed, unsure.

        “I don’t know. I mean… isn’t it a little…” Yixing clamored for the right words. _It was certainly a little abnormal before… but now… I mean, Jesus… he has a dad!_ The obvious awkwardness sat in his throat uncomfortably, but he didn’t want to spook Jongdae off. However odd it was, this kink of Jongdae’s, Yixing couldn’t deny his own attachment to the role. The way he’d responded the first time Jongdae whispered it in his ear was undeniable proof of his own deviance, if that’s what this was. Did it change anything, now that he knew Jongdae’s secret? If it did, Jongdae’s worries would be proven right. And Yixing couldn’t let that happen.

        “I promised I would love you the way you deserve. I will protect you. I will take care of you. I will ravish you – ” Jongdae quivered in Yixing’s arms. “If you still want to be mine, my little one…” The end of the sentence stalled in Yixing’s head. But Jongdae, beautiful, blessed Jongdae picked up the pieces for him.

        “I love you, too, daddy.”

        A glint of relief sparkled in Jongdae’s eyes as he moved closer, hips swiveling into Yixing’s own. Yixing welcomed the slow, adoring kiss, a melting sort of feeling shared between them. Unimpeded by doubt, Yixing held Jongdae close, harboring him the way he hoped he would for the rest of his life.

        A minute or two had passed when Jongdae retreated again, kiss-swollen lips bearing another question.

        “Daddy… can I stay here? I mean… not just tonight?” Befuddled from Jongdae’s delicate tongue against his teeth, Yixing took a second to register the request.

        “Like… move in?”

        “I mean… I don’t know. I was going to move out of my house when I turned eighteen anyway, I’ve been looking for a place for a while… it’s just… I would feel so much better if I never had to go back there again.” Jongdae teased the neckline of Yixing’s shirt as he spoke. “And I quite like waking up here with you.” Yixing did his best not to immediately, emphatically agree.

        “How about this… you are welcome to stay here whenever you need to. But we’ll wait on any actual moving until you’re a legal adult, alright?” Jongdae’s grin peaked quickly, and he rolled his hips in enthusiastic gratitude. “And I don’t want you to miss any more school, or anything else you have going on. I can’t have you lolling around here all the time, causing trouble.” Jongdae was shaking his head, a bratty, mocking crease in his brow provoking Yixing to sneak under his chin and bite at the sensitive skin there. The idea of coming home to Jongdae, naked and aching in his bed made Yixing feel simultaneously chilled and feverish, as he claimed Jongdae’s neck as his own, marking it with the outline of his lips. Jongdae yelped and tried to push Yixing away, but Yixing held on, one hand sneaking down to palm Jongdae’s ass, which was still rutting slowly against him. “On second thought, maybe trouble is exactly what you’re best at…”


	9. Chapter 9

        It took two days and three nights for Yixing to forget what it felt like to sleep alone in his bed.

        He had spent the better part of twenty nine years learning to make choices on his own, the hallmark of introversion and the two-sided coin of independence, but it took him a surprisingly short time to adapt to a new dynamic. He found himself making room for Jongdae, creating space within the patterns and routines of his life beyond simple accommodation.

        For instance, Yixing, no matter how much he wished or willed, wasn’t a morning person.

        It’s not that he couldn’t wake up early; in fact, he naturally rose around 8:00 every morning without the obnoxious aid of beeps or sirens. Rather, it was his preference to wake slowly, silently, without the interference of others. He liked to ease into his day, coffee in hand, on his balcony if possible. If the weather was inhospitable, he would sit in his worn leather chair and read, even before he headed to work, committed to a gentle morning routine. This made having roommates consistently unpleasant in his younger years, however significant the monetary benefits.

        But the fourth morning Yixing woke up with his boy tangled around him, Jongdae’s alarm for school sounding quietly from the nightstand, the sun just barely peeking through his windows, Yixing found himself eager for Jongdae before he’d even opened his eyes. However pleasant it had been to hone his morning according to his particular tastes, predictable and precise in every way, the unfiltered joy he felt knowing his day would begin with someone else, someone he adored and who adored him in return, was far better, far more fulfilling that any cold satisfaction independence yielded.

        Still supine under his sheets, Yixing watched Jongdae move almost silently around the room, brushing his teeth, attempting to tidy his sleep-mussed hair. He moved on quiet, tip-toed footsteps, but Yixing saw a comfort, a confidence in his movement that felt like home. Like Jongdae belonged here, in this room, to this life, and to Yixing. Perhaps it was his dreams talking, which were collectively more colorful and exuberant than they had been a week ago, but Yixing saw Jongdae settling into things with him even in these few days, nestling into the spaces Yixing created for him, carving out a shared life. The thought drew a grateful, contented smile out of Yixing.

        Not that this was necessarily the intention. Yixing had been processing the situation constantly, organizing his thoughts, balancing and checking his own motivations since Jongdae’s emotional confession, doing his best to ensure Jongdae’s protection, dignity, and happiness. After more discussion, Yixing agreed to harbor him whenever he needed to avoid his father. Ideally, he wanted to offer him a consistent place to settle, rather than let him flit around aimlessly. This almost instant familiarity, Jongdae’s rapid acclimation was neither intended nor unwelcome. _As long as he’s happy. As long as he’s safe. He can always rely on me. He can always come here._ This promise prompted some logistics and planning, including a quick stop by Jongdae’s house to pick up a few essentials.

        Yixing had observed the house while he idled in his car outside. It was as non-descript as he’d remembered. There was very little to go on from the outside concerning what terror lurked within, and Jongdae had insisted he wait outside. Fortunately, Jongdae’s father hadn’t been there, and they had returned to Yixing’s place within twenty minutes of leaving.

        With that behind them, Jongdae had immediately taken to making himself at home in Yixing’s place, flopping on the bed to do his homework, chucking his own clothes aside in favor of bare legs and the navy pullover he’d brought with him from home, his treasured memento of their first night together. Yixing noticed that it had already been washed several times since last he’d seen it, the hem at the bottom slightly faded with repeated wear over the previous weeks. Even now, as Jongdae was searching around the bedroom floor, Yixing knew he was searching for that particular sweater. He’d barely taken it off since he’d been here, discarded only last night when they’d gotten into bed. Yixing sat up amidst Jongdae’s quiet search, holding the pullover, hidden from view between the headboard and the mattress.

        “Looking for this, little one?”

        Jongdae looked up, startled, his eyes wide, an errant spike of hair sticking up at the back. Yixing’s smile widened then morphed into a yawn.

        “I’m sorry I woke you…” Jongdae padded over to the edge of the bed as Yixing examined the pullover. Its soft, worn texture was marred by deep creases, having spent the night stuffed behind the mattress. Plus, Yixing noticed now that he looked, there was a small but noticeable splotch, a stain on one sleeve, that he guessed was added sometime during the night while he and Jongdae were earning their sleep. He ran a finger over it, playing back the previous night to deduce when it might have happened, settling on a particularly vivid memory of his arms around Jongdae, the boy’s nails clawing at the headboard, eyes shut too tight as he cried out Yixing’s name, sullying the sheets as well as, he surmised, the discarded pullover. Yixing angled the sleeve to show Jongdae.

        “Perhaps you could wear something else so I can wash this for you? Not sure this is a fashion statement you want to be making.” Jongdae nodded, his cheeks blooming a tender, rosy hue, waking Yixing’s sleepy pulse. He set the sweater aside and reached his arm up, brushing his fingers across Jongdae’s reddened cheeks. “Pick something of mine, if you like.” Jongdae leaned into the attention like a cat might, closing his heavy eyes and humming. He turned his chin slightly, nudging Yixing’s hand toward his lips, trailing little kisses along his fingers.

        This particular touch had become a wordless code between them in recent days. Jongdae was naturally very affectionate and doting, almost meticulous in his attention, but Yixing had realized there was a deeper dimension to Jongdae’s tongue lining his digits one by one, his exhale warming the curves of Yixing’s palm. He’d thought originally that it was simply his favored foreplay, a mild fetish at most, but the more he paid attention, he started to realize it was a cue, a signal meant to prompt a certain response. Something about the look in Jongdae’s eyes the second night he stayed with Yixing, his lips curved around the vulnerable bend between Yixing’s thumb and first finger expressed something beyond lust. Micro movements at the edges of his eyes, the hollow of his throat, sent a fizzy, skipping thrum through Yixing’s blood. Jongdae took his time licking lightly around the creases of each knuckle, long stripes up the pads, all the while slowly bending his legs beneath him, lowering himself to look up, rather than evenly into Yixing’s eyes. He pursed his lips and marked each nail individually, arching his back minutely as he went, and ducking his chin down toward his chest. Yixing watched, fascinated, and forced the titillating sensations in his hand back from his focus to understand what Jongdae was trying to say.

        Curious, Yixing straightened his relaxed posture in tandem with Jongdae’s slight movements, increasing the angle of Jongdae’s neck; he saw Jongdae’s eyelids flick up in response, the tiniest indication. So Yixing tried again, inhaling deeply, holding the air in his chest for a few prolonged seconds, as he tilted his head to one side and narrowed his eyes. A small twitch in Jongdae’s breathing confirmed Yixing’s theory. The kisses along his wrist grew more urgent, a touch sloppier, and Yixing gained confidence. His third move was riskier; he brought his other hand up behind Jongdae, cupping the back of his neck. Jongdae’s eyes rolled then closed. Yixing applied a little pressure, then a little more, holding Jongdae firmly. His thumb grazed across warm skin, seeking a certain spot. He felt that telltale simmering beneath the surface and pressed, pinning down Jongdae’s pulse. Jongdae’s eyes flashed open, shot through with intensity, a willing captive.

        And from that moment, Jongdae voiced his need to be dominated not with words, but with his mouth all the same.

        Yixing considered his options for a second as he hooked his free hand around Jongdae’s wrist to capture his pulse, provoking a quiver across Jongdae’s bare chest.

        “Maybe the blue button-down…” It wasn’t a question. Yixing looked Jongdae up and down, peripherally enjoying Jongdae’s mint-cooled tongue lacing between his ring and pinkie fingers. “I just got it back from the dry cleaners. It’s hanging on the closet door in the bag. Try it, see how it fits.” He gave Jongdae’s wrist a squeeze, then retracted both his hands. Jongdae looked a little reluctant to walk away, but Yixing was learning not to budge once he’d requested something. He leaned back against the headboard, expectant, and Jongdae submitted, the blush in his cheeks still apparent as he did his best to comply with Yixing’s gentle authority.

        Twenty minutes later, Yixing stood in the alcove on the ground floor of his building, adjusting Jongdae’s collar, the morning breeze snaking between them, ruffling Jongdae’s sunny hair. Jongdae smirked at the attention and leaned forward, touching his nose to Yixing’s.

        “You gonna miss me, daddy?”

        The honey-sweet smell of Jongdae filled Yixing up like a balloon, and he felt equally as buoyant. He nuzzled Jongdae’s nose, then closed the remaining gap with his lips, leaving a fleeting, soft peck just at the curved corner of Jongdae’s grin.

        “Not one bit. All of this is obligatory. I don’t actually even like you; I just feel the need to be a responsible adult.” Jongdae raised an eyebrow coyly at Yixing’s dry expression.

        “Mhm. So… you were being a responsible adult when you worked me open last night? Four fingers worth of responsible, huh?” Yixing’s stomach flipped. “Or when you had me pinned halfway up the wall?” A roiling thrill erupted in Yixing’s gut, threatening to burn up his good judgment semi-publically. “Or when you asked me to suck your big, throbbing – ”

        “Jongdae!” He laughed, pleased at the scandalized look on Yixing’s face.

        “Yes, daddy?” Yixing smiled and shook his head.

        “Of course I’ll miss you. You and your smart mouth. And your neck, and your legs, and your perfect ass.” Yixing held off from manhandling that particular feature, complimented this morning by tight indigo denim, forcing his hands to return to Jongdae’s collar, straightening it once more, appreciating the cool blue against Jongdae’s clear, similarly cool-toned skin.

        “Okay. You be good. And remember we have dinner tonight with Chanyeol and Baekhyun.”

        “Yes, daddy. I love you.”

        “And I, you, little one.”

        Yixing sent Jongdae on his way up the sidewalk, the younger looking back to wave or blow a kiss no less than three times before he rounded the corner.


	10. Chapter 10

        “Hyung! You’re alive!”

        Chanyeol spread his arms out like a master of ceremonies, narrowly missing the full glass of water Baekhyun casually shifted out of his reach, and rose from his seat at the table set for four, greeting Yixing with a showy, exuberant embrace. Baekhyun stepped around his sasquatch of a boyfriend to take Jongdae’s hand, shaking it warmly.

        “It’s nice to meet you again, Jongdae. We’ve heard _really_ good things about you.” Baekhyun winked conspiratorially, leading Jongdae to his seat by his hand.

        “Glad you could make it, hyung. I thought maybe you’d cancel last minute in favor of whatever devious shit you and JD get up to these days,” Chanyeol whispered this in Yixing’s ear as they broke apart, though, as with most things, subtle for Chanyeol equated to borderline boisterous for everyone else. Yixing sighed and eyeballed his friend. But despite his crassness, he had missed Chanyeol’s infectious attitude, feeling his own lips automatically turning up to copy Chanyeol’s unwavering Cheshire-cat-expression.

        “You really shouldn’t wear pink. You look like a giant marshmallow.” Yixing fired back half-heartedly as he sat next to Jongdae, whose hand immediately slid over under the table, fingers linking with his own.

        “Hey, don’t be rude. Baekhyun gave me this shirt. He said I look dashing in it.” Chanyeol beamed at his boyfriend who nodded, affirming the opinion. “Plus, now we match. And what’s cuter than a couple that matches, I ask you?” Baekhyun tipped his head forward a bit, examining the blush pink hair that fell in front of his eyes playfully. He flicked it back into place, turning his attention again to Jongdae, who was laughing lightly.

        “I don’t know, Yeollie. These two are pretty cute together.” Yixing squeezed Jongdae’s hand under the table as a bashful smile spread across Jongdae’s face. “I thought so when we met you at Yixing’s place. I mean, you’re alright, Yixing, but this one – ” he pointed a finger at Jongdae, pulling a playful, accusing expression, “is just precious.”

        “It’s true.” Chanyeol leaned back in his chair, appraising the couple across from him. “He makes you look much more appealing by proximity, hyung. You don’t look like you have a stick firmly wedged up your ass like you normally do.” Jongdae laughed again, but Yixing braced himself. “Maybe because something else’s been up there – ”

        “So tell us about yourself, Jongdae!” Baekhyun’s cheery voice cut off Yixing’s impending chastisement. Yixing was ready to lay into Chanyeol anyway, unwilling to spend an evening bring mocked for his newfound sexual intrepidity, but a returned squeeze around his fingers silenced him. He looked over at Jongdae, all illuminated by their table’s soft candlelight, and he felt his annoyance extinguish. _He really is gorgeous,_ Yixing thought proudly, watching Jongdae answer Baekhyun’s attentive questions with poise and humility. _And he’s mine._

        Their waiter collected their orders (Baekhyun and Chanyeol exchanged pointed, wide-eyed looks when Yixing spoke for Jongdae, though they said nothing) and kept the four flush with water and wine as they talked. As he had when his friends had interrupted his and Jongdae’s first morning together, Yixing found himself gladly taking a more passive role in the conversation, satisfied to observe Jongdae’s limitless, calm charisma.

        He had explained on the ride over that his friends knew Jongdae’s age; they had supported Yixing when he was confused and unsure what to do about his fervent, morally questionable infatuation, absorbing the age difference faultlessly. Yixing assured Jongdae as he drove through the settling dusk that they were (mostly) trustworthy to behave in reference to this potentially awkward subject. Jongdae lips had perked up as he’d taken one of Yixing’s hands in his, lifting it for a single kiss at the base of his ring finger.

        “As long as you’re next to me, they can ask me anything they like.”

        But words that had been believable in the car felt naïve and precarious now that Chanyeol and Baekhyun had Jongdae in their sights.

        “So now that’s we’ve established that you are far more pleasant that Yixing and we officially adopt you and reject him, I think it’s high time we move onto everyone’s favorite subject – sex!”

        Their waiter, a dark-haired, bright-looking boy with the name _Jackson_ printed plainly across his gold name tag, almost dropped the over-sized tray he was carefully balancing. Yixing rolled his eyes while Baekhyun scrunched his face sympathetically at their stunned waiter by way of apology for Chanyeol’s lack of tact. He hastily delivered each bowl and plate to the table then scurried away, a raging, reddish flush burning his ears.

        “Was it something I said?” Chanyeol’s feigned confusion quickly relaxed back into a smile as he picked up his chopsticks eagerly. “I’m serious. Jongdae. I’ve always been curious… I mean, not curious enough to try it myself, that would be disgusting on several levels, I mean the dirty talk alone, I can’t even imagine…” Baekhyun poked him roughly in the arm with a chopstick before returning to his steaming bowl. “Right, apologies… so, how is this guy in the sack, hm? Feel free to be as detailed as you like, we’re all friends here.” He started in on his food, his eyes round in anticipation as he surveyed Jongdae.

        Jongdae looked over at Yixing, his bottom lip screwed up in a half-pout, half-giggle, rounded cheeks almost iridescent in the ambient light. The look was charming enough to take the edge of Yixing’s growing annoyance; he shrugged, tilting his head toward his friends. _Go ahead. I have nothing to hide anymore._

        “Well, I can’t complain…” Chanyeol swirled his chopsticks around the contents of the small dish in front of him, sampling the shiny, mustard-colored sauce as he listened. Jongdae paused, taking a sip of his water.

        “…Is that it? That’s all I get?” Chanyeol looked at Jongdae with an unsatisfied tilt to his brow. Jongdae raised his own in response, the picture of innocence and good manners.

        “What I mean is, I couldn’t complain if I wanted to. What with the gag in my mouth and all. Yixing demands a lot of me, but I do my best.” He dropped his eyes to the bowl in front of him, contemplative as he inhaled the inviting mix of spicy and sweet. “Like how I can’t quite fit him all the way in my mouth yet. But I think if I keep practicing, I’ll learn. Right, daddy?” He flicked his eyes up to Yixing’s increasingly dilated ones, leading with heavy, dark eyelashes. His expression remained composed apart from a devious little spark behind his eyes, challenging and fiery for Yixing… and maybe a little smug. Yixing gnawed on his bottom lip, fighting the urge to bite down on whatever part of Jongdae he could reach instead.

        He heard a spluttered cough, and both he and Jongdae looked across the table. Chanyeol was wiping his mouth hastily with his napkin while Baekhyun’s jaw lay open, an impressed, dumbly surprised look in his eye. Yixing felt a swell of admiration for Jongdae’s cheek; what luck, to have found someone who might just be a match for brash, uninhibited Chanyeol.

        After a few seconds of silence, Chanyeol recovered.

        “Well, cheers to that.” He downed his remaining wine, then half his water. “So I guess the next question is for you… _daddy_.” Yixing’s giddy feeling shrunk back a bit under Chanyeol’s mischievous scowl. “I wonder… how does Jongdae compare to your disastrous night with Minseok? Strictly physically, I mean. I know you’re obviously totally whipped by this one already – ”

        Baekhyun snorted out a laugh.

        “Fantastic choice of words, Yeollie.” Chanyeol paused, then grinned, pleased with himself.

        “Indeed. So setting aside the fact that you’re obviously in love with Jongdae to a degree I find both amusing and sort of gross… has your bizarre, latent sex drive been sated? It sounds like you’ve recovered from your paralyzing fear of blowjobs and turned into some sort of dom deviant.”

        The simmering heat Jongdae had lit in Yixing’s core was doused by Chanyeol’s words. He hadn’t told Jongdae about Minseok. He hadn’t thought it necessary or relevant, content to die with that horrific night buried deep in his subconscious. But apparently Chanyeol thought differently. _What a fuckwad._

        “Really?” Yixing glared at a surprised-looking Chanyeol. “I’m not… why would you bring that up?”

        “What? I don’t know, I’m curious.”

        A pressure was building in Yixing’s jaw. He felt his molars crushing against each other, trapping his frustration and embarrassment from escaping his mouth too quickly. He couldn’t overreact, however badly he wanted to tackle Chanyeol for being so thoughtless. If he were honest with himself, he would have admitted he was nervous for tonight. The time he’d spent with Jongdae alone felt like a dream: vivid, rich, and possibly illusory. What if they didn’t hold up? What if the raised eyebrows and the questions and the speculation of the world outside their happy dream proved too much to bear? However sure he was of their connection, of their compatibility and passion, Yixing worried how they would hold up under inevitable scrutiny and pressure and he didn’t feel prepared to test it just yet.

        He bore down on Chanyeol across the table, willing his friend to trust their decade-plus years together, to read his worry and reluctance, to back off. Chanyeol’s eyes lifted minutely as he continued.

        “I mean, hyung, you’re basically a different person than you were a week ago, and I think we probably have Jongdae to thank for that, don’t we?”

        “You do seem decidedly happier, Xing,” Baekhyun added, attempting to soften the rough edge he saw on Yixing’s face.

        “I am.” And he felt it, deep in his marrow. He’d never known this feeling before Jongdae. It was broader the trembling frenzy of lust and denser than simple romance. Jongdae was _precious_ , vital to him now in an ineffable way. He couldn’t let anything threaten that. “So let’s move on, shall we?”

        Chanyeol nodded, a touch of contrition visible in his scrunched mouth and chin.

        “Whatever you say, hyung. Baekkie and I have plenty of our own stories to tell anyway.”

        Chanyeol, a master of stamping out awkwardness with his brand of self-deprecating, amiable humor, launched unperturbed into a story involving his and Baekhyun’s creative use of a tire swing in a secluded corner of the park the day before. Yixing, grateful for the shift in attention, leaned back in his hair a bit. Along his periphery, Jongdae was still, hands prim in his lap as he faced the others, listening intently.

        Yixing spared Chanyeol his attention momentarily, angling himself sideways to get a better view. He took in the details he’d started memorizing when they were alone, reading Jongdae’s body for his response to Chanyeol’s bumbling idiocy… but he came up empty. Jongdae was smiling along with Chanyeol’s dramatic retelling of his exploits with Baekhyun, as glowing and unflappable as before. Yixing exhaled and reached over to pinch Jongdae’s thigh lightly, earning a small, sloping smile.

\--- --- ---

        “I was thinking we could go see a movie this weekend. I haven’t gone to a theater in a while, and you can pick whatever you want to see.” Yixing closed his front door and slipped off his shoes, following Jongdae inside. “Or maybe a museum? We’re supposed to have nice weather, and the art museum opened an outdoor sculpture exhibit for the summer. Do you like art?” He scooted into the kitchen to fill his kettle with water. “But that’s only if you’re free. Don’t let me take up your time if you have other things you need to do, okay?” The kettle now full, Yixing turned to replace it on the stove to boil, but he hesitated, water sloshing against metal. Jongdae sat at the counter watching him, a frown darkening his expression. “What is it, baby?”

        “Who’s Minseok?”

        He said it quietly, his voice hesitant and shy. But there was an insistence Yixing had missed at dinner, a nervous expectation waiting behind the question. Yixing set the kettle down and turned on the heat, stalling. He braced his arms on the edge of the counter, leaning forward, watching the coil beneath his kettle heat from within, its cool matte black surface warming to an electric, wild orange.

        “Minseok was… my moronic way of trying to get over you after…” Yixing floundered, unsure of how to continue. How could he convey the utter absurdity of that night, express the full spectrum of his regret and self-loathing over what had happened, without risking hurting Jongdae with unnecessary, unkind details? How could he explain that Minseok was a mistake, neither relevant nor threatening? He rifled through his sharp memories of that night: his hand snuck between tight denim, his back against brick, Minseok’s feline eyes peering up at him as he breathed carefully through his nose. _Jesus, Yixing, focus._

        “It was a blind date.” _Good._ “I asked Chanyeol,” _that mouthy ass hat,_ “to set me up with someone. I thought if I went out on a date, I could maybe, for one night, stop pining for you,” Yixing blurted. “We went out, me and this random guy Chanyeol knows, and it was fine, and then it was _terrible_ … and then I called you.”

        Yixing looked up, the heels of his hands still digging into the counter. Jongdae was watching him closely, a mild, vaguely melancholic tilt to his features as he did so. He looked small this way, so much smaller than the impressive, enchanting young man from dinner, his shoulders seemingly pulled low with the weight of his doubt. He blinked, then nodded.

        “Okay.”

        “I didn’t tell you because it didn’t matter. At all. Chanyeol just has a big mouth…”

        “Why did he call it a disaster?”

        “What?” Yixing’s brain had flown past the conversation, desperate to find an exit strategy that didn’t involve him telling Jongdae this story, which would likely end in both of them feeling mortified. He couldn’t pinpoint why, but he felt a sharp aversion to telling Jongdae about past partners, however few of them there were.

        “Chanyeol said you had a disastrous night with Minseok.”

        “Yeah, well, that’s an understatement.” Yixing straightened up and raked his hands through his hair, remembering his lonely, silent evenings in this apartment longingly for a brief moment. But then he looked back at Jongdae again, his fragile, deflated boy, and he felt his ego bowing low, conceding.

        “I thought I might be able to find a fraction of what I felt with you that first night, just a piece, with somebody else. And if I could do that, I thought I could… start to let you go. Which, looking back at it now, was really stupid. I was wrong. It felt… _really_ _wrong_ , being with someone else.”

        Yixing took a few steps around the counter toward Jongdae, hoping physical closeness might make up for his clumsy words. He paused a foot away, as if waiting for an invitation.

        “So you were with him?”

        Yixing heart pumped strangely, off-beat.

        “Yes… well, sort of. He… it doesn’t matter.” Yixing hesitated, determined to sound neither trite nor disingenuous. “If I couldn’t have you… I wanted to move on. I felt like I was stuck and I had to try to see a future without you in it. But I couldn’t. I can’t.” He took a step forward to stand beside Jongdae, whose eyes were fixated on the counter.

        “Jongdae… baby, look at me. Please.”

        And then there were those eyes. Dark but still bright, curious and sweet, all glassy with uncertainty and want.

        They met in the middle, Yixing’s hands cradling Jongdae’s jaw, his thumbs sweeping across his lovely cheekbones as Jongdae leaned in, his hands finding Yixing’s wrists as if to hold them up should they be tempted to retreat. The bend in Jongdae’s brows and the tiny crease in his lips read to Yixing not as accusing or hurt, but as wanting. So he gave.

        “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. And I’m sorry I did it.”

        “You don’t owe me that. I just…”

        “I know, but I’m sorry anyway.” Yixing held Jongdae’s face with all the tenderness his long-lonely heart could provide. “I wish I’d just called you sooner. I wish I’d never taken you home that day. I wish you were older, or I were younger, or something but I’m doing the best I can and I’m sorry.”

        Jongdae closed his eyes at the words. Yixing felt cold, like he had missed something, said something wrong, and he opened his mouth to pile on whatever else he could think of to make this better, to erase that look from Jongdae’s face –

        “I want to be enough for you.” Jongdae spoke with a tight, wet voice, his eyes still muscled shut. “I… I don’t think I’ll ever find anyone like you again and I don’t want to lose you… because… I’m not worth all this. I’ll do anything, I swear. Whatever you want, I’ll do it, I’ll do anything, daddy, please…”

        Jongdae lowered his head, muddling his last words as he pressed his lips to Yixing’s hands, kissing his fingers, holding them weakly with his own long pale ones.

        Yixing mirrored Jongdae’s movement, draping himself around his boy, burying his face in Jongdae’s hair. They stayed like that for a minute, their breath warm on each other’s skin.

        Yixing took a slow breath and pulled back, lowering himself so he could look up at Jongdae.

        “You know… I think we’re saying the same thing.” He smiled, seeing Jongdae’s worry shrink back a little.

        “I love you.”

        “I love you.”

        An insistent whistle from the stove broke their stare. Jongdae smiled back, and Yixing, satisfied for now, stood up again, tending to the kettle.

        “Tea?”

        “Yes, please. And.. daddy?” Yixing looked up from his impressive tea collection.

        “Mhm?”

        “I do like art.” His lips twitched up into a smile before he slid off his seat, walking into the bedroom to change into the clean, folded pullover that sat waiting for him on white sheets.


	11. Chapter 11

        The August heat lingered through the first days of September, insulating Jongdae and Yixing in its calming warmth. Their days and nights together accumulated into two untouchable weeks of held hands and held gazes, fresh flowers on the nightstand and indulgently long showers, evenings spent watching other couples head to dinner three floors below, Jongdae nestled in Yixing’s lap as the sun set beyond their vision, Yixing’s fingers latticed in his hair. They weren’t so much ignoring reality (Yixing never went more than twenty-four hours without inquiring, always gently, about Jongdae’s family, his safety, and his responsibilities) as building a new one. Jongdae’s eighteenth birthday was rapidly approaching, and the possibility of life without constraint, without moral negligence or forced limitations, an honest, growing life with Jongdae was becoming less of a dream and more of an inevitability. Plans, increasingly realistic and attainable began solidifying, clarifying in Yixing’s mind. They could do this. Their time was coming.

        Jongdae spent his days at school while Yixing worked, the two reconnecting almost every evening at Yixing’s place. They quickly molded routines with each other – their groggy, mellow mornings made bearable with coffee and kissing, their alternately bashful then explicit afternoon texts, their growing familiarity and easy intimacy in the haven of the apartment.

        Yixing slept more soundly these days. And he found himself laughing more readily, noticed first by Chanyeol the second time they attempted a double date. However diligent he was in remaining cognizant if not actively concerned about Jongdae’s familial situation, he felt a _buoyancy_ , some airy promise Jongdae set as Yixing’s internal compass, propelling him through his life.

        They continued to navigate each other in every possible way, joined by shared vulnerability and doubt, risk and affection. They talked late into the night, falling asleep mid-conversation, picking up the threads the next day. Their bodies began to line up unconsciously, balancing and challenging and resting together, complements to each other. It was a unique pleasure, each exploring the other, fascinated, curious, hungry. And not only was Yixing learning about Jongdae, but he was delving into himself in tandem, baring new depths he’d never even guessed at.

\--- --- ---

        One Sunday morning, Yixing stood over a cutting board in the kitchen, crafting something aromatic and fresh for their late breakfast.

        He had been forced to work the day before late into the night, usurping their Saturday entirely. As he’d prepared to leave, Jongdae had whined, protested, and, most compelling, dropped to his knees by the front door, immediately mouthing the front of Yixing’s pants, holding the backs of Yixing’s knees to trap him in place. Yixing’s rationality skipped like a scratched disc, faltering and blanking out as Jongdae hummed against his clothed skin. His hand reached out, braced against the front door as he tried to keep the gasp inside his mouth. Jongdae persisted, running his hands up and down the backs of Yixing’s calves, working his jaw to massage Yixing into arousal through his pants.

        It took a minute and a half of Jongdae plaintively begging Yixing to stay, lips pressed messily against smooth, snug fabric, grappling hands needy along the full length of Yixing’s legs, before Yixing couldn’t take it anymore. He felt the irreversible pressure threatening to build in his gut, threatening to overtake his restraint and reason. But he really couldn’t afford it right now, plus he hadn’t quite managed to limit himself when it came to Jongdae’s body. If he gave in, if he let this continue, he might not ever leave.

        So Yixing had stepped back, leaving Jongdae empty-handed, his folded legs spread apart, straddling nothing but air, displaying both his natural flexibility and his own arousal, suggesting the position he’d take if they had carried this to Yixing’s bedroom. Jongdae looked up, pouting, and reached forward to touch Yixing again, but Yixing stopped him with a warning look.

        “Baby, I’ve got to go. I’m sorry, but it’s not my decision.”

        “Yes it is. You could stay here if you wanted to.” Yixing heard the hurt tone in Jongdae’s voice, feeling both an inkling of regret that he couldn’t indeed stay, that Jongdae was disappointed in him, but he also felt a quiet, metallic satisfaction in his bones. _He wants me. Maybe I’ve gotten to him, at least a little bit._ That thought won out as Yixing hooked a finger under Jongdae’s annoyed, dimpled chin, coaxing him off his knees.

        “It has nothing to do with want. If it did, I’d be here, putting that eager mouth of yours to better use.” Yixing ran a thumb across Jongdae’s lower lip, then held his jaw in place, kissing him firmly, a placeholder during their day apart. He felt a jolt of pleasure as the miffed expression shed from Jongdae’s face, replaced by a placated, docile one. Yixing shook his head, laughing a little. “I’ll be home as soon as I can. And then you can finish what you started, hm?”

        But work snowballed, and Yixing had been stuck at his office until well past midnight. He returned to his apartment, weary and drained and weighed down with more work in his briefcase, to find Jongdae asleep on the couch, quilt draped over his bare legs. Even in sleep he wore a little grimace, his eyebrows scrunched together, mouth set in a line. _What a brat,_ Yixing thought as he knelt down next to Jongdae, smiling despite his exhaustion. He set his jacket and briefcase aside, freeing his hands to nudge under Jongdae’s contracted body, scooping him up toward his chest. Jongdae grumbled a little as Yixing got to his feet, maneuvering around the couch, flicking off the kitchen lights, and retreating to their bedroom.

        He set Jongdae down onto his preferred side of the bed (though he often ended up half-suffocating Yixing by morning with his clingy sleep habits) and walked to his closet. He quietly undressed, freeing himself from the stuffy constraints of his simple ash gray slacks and white dress shirt. He wanted a shower, but he wanted sleep more, so once he’d stripped down to his briefs, he turned back to his bed. Jongdae lay where he’d left him, though his eyes were open, watching.

        “Why’d you stop?” Jongdae asked, voice a little croaky. Yixing huffed out a little laugh.

        “I’m sorry I woke you. Why didn’t you just go to bed before?”

        “I don’t want to sleep here by myself.” Jongdae answered easily, but the words played in Yixing’s ears like music, haunting and sweet and just what he wanted to hear after a trying day. “Come to bed.”

        Lifting the sheets over them both, Yixing slid into bed next to Jongdae, who immediately sidled his thin body across the mattress. He turned away from Yixing, sticking his butt out a bit as he adjusted the pillow beneath his head. Yixing chuckled again and obliged Jongdae’s wordless request, fitting in behind him, linking their bodies like spoons do. But Jongdae made some small noise, a throaty, sleepy mumble, and Yixing felt his hand fumbling beneath the sheets. In the dark, Jongdae felt around, finally gripping the waistband of Yixing’s underwear.

        “Mmmm… off,” Jongdae grunted quietly into his pillow.

        And as usual, Yixing had no thought of denying him. He slipped his briefs off, letting them fall on the floor beside the bed, and reclaimed his place next to Jongdae, burying his face in the back of his neck. Jongdae wriggled a little, scooting back further to press himself fully into Yixing’s strong, secure body, hips lining up like legos. He reached his hand back again, resting his fingers gratefully across Yixing’s naked hip, humming with appeasement. Yixing kissed the flat plane of his shoulders.

        “Goodnight, baby.”

        But he had already slipped back into sleep.

        The following morning, Jongdae was perched on the kitchen counter, knees folded up to his chest, socked toes hanging over the edge of the granite, watching Yixing prepare their meal on the counter next to him.

        Jongdae was still harboring a little annoyance over Yixing’s absence the day before; however fun it had been to examine Yixing’s apartment unhindered, opening every drawer and cabinet, fawning over the beautiful tailored clothes hanging in his closet, Jongdae wanted payback for their time lost. He watched Yixing work through a pile of mushrooms, the dear, gentle affection he found so comforting, evident in his meticulous attention to the work before him, but as his eyes scanned down Yixing’s neck to his muscular arms, adroit wrists and fingers, Jongdae longed to entice the more dominant side of Yixing out, the side that had chastised him the day before, the side that brought Jongdae to his knees.

        Because as he’d suspected at the bar that first night, Yixing contained a spectrum of complexity, much of it still undiscovered. Jongdae adored every side Yixing showed him, every side Jongdae managed to tease out. Now that they were together, he challenged himself to learn the details and ticks of this man. He needed to know how to love him best, what made Yixing purr and moan and gasp and weep and shudder.

        So he set about playing his game, both a penance for Yixing leaving him alone the day before and bait to lure that sharpened, predatory touch out of him again. He asked tame, unassuming questions about what Yixing was making while he nimbly maneuvered himself on the counter, his body having an entirely different conversation with Yixing. He observed every blink, every movement closely, quantifying his effect on Yixing, who found it more than a little challenging to focus on the task before him with Jongdae’s clean, slim legs on display, his childish, tucked-up posture juxtaposed with the prominent bulge hidden just behind thin, black cotton briefs.

        “I’m almost through with this. Could you hand me a couple glasses, please? They’re in the cabinet behind you,” Yixing soldiered on, determined not to succumb to the ever-present need to touch Jongdae, to hold him, to give him his unquestioned, adoring attention. He heard Chanyeol’s voice in his head – _I mean, I know you’re obviously totally whipped by this one already…_

        “Which ones?” Jongdae twisted around on the cool granite so he could access the appropriate cabinet, letting one of his knees fall sideways, opening his hips to provide Yixing with an unfettered view of his groin, the shift of dark fabric over velvet skin defining Jongdae’s teasing display. He opened the cabinet door and lifted his hand toward one of the higher shelves, his reach causing the striped rugby shirt he’d brought from home to sneak up his torso, revealing a strip of pale skin.

        Yixing’s exhale stalled in his throat. Jongdae noticed, pleased, and reached a little higher, the hem of his shirt lifting up around his navel. He chose a glass, wrapping his fingers around it and looked back at Yixing with all the innocence he could muster.

        “Did you mean these?”

        Jongdae struggled to keep a laugh behind his lips. Yixing, with his eyebrows peaked and his eyes glazed over, looked like a puppy waiting diligently for a treat. Lips twitching with amusement, Jongdae shifted a little more, playing with poor Yixing while he had the chance. He arched his back a few degrees and flexed his hips wider, the fabric of the boxers pulling taut against his slightly hard cock. And with the sweetest, most childlike voice he could –

        “Daddy?”

        The exhale that had been trapped behind Yixing’s teeth escaped all at once in a sigh (Jongdae stifled a smile, filing this detail away for future use, keeping his expression as angelic as he could manage while his desire for Yixing grew more urgent under his gaze). He licked his bottom lip, tempted, as Jongdae brought the glass down to the counter next to him. Yixing glanced at the food waiting for them, steaming and fragrant in a pan, then let his eyes return to Jongdae, whose legs were dangling off the counter and swinging, still spread wide in suggestion.

        “You’re going to ruin me, little one.” Yixing spoke low, more to himself than to Jongdae, causing the younger to tilt forward a bit, attentive and expectant. Yixing felt his nurturing, protective nature pull back like a curtain, clearing the path for a sharper, more demanding motivation.

        “You know, you don’t have to be coy with me.” Yixing moved as he spoke, turning off the burner on the stove and shifting the pan away from the heat. “You should know by now that I’ll give you _whatever_ you need, anything ask for.” He angled toward Jongdae, who leaned back slightly, a nervous spark threading through him as he watched Yixing change, accede to his unknown, uncontrolled hunger. His voice was hypnotic and thick as he continued. “But when you distract me and tease me like this,” his eyes took in every inch of his boy, starting from his now motionless feet up his pale limbs, over his torso and thrumming neck, “when you… _misbehave,_ ” Jongdae shuddered, the tone in Yixing’s voice somewhere between syrup and steel, “you force me to remind you who I am.” Yixing let his eyes finally meet Jongdae’s wide-open, dilated ones.

        “What… what do you mean?” Jongdae wasn’t moving, apart from an uncontrolled tremor in his rapidly stiffening cock, held captive by Yixing’s words.

        “I mean, little one, that if you’re going to call me daddy,” Yixing took Jongdae’s hands and lifted them up, guiding them to the lip of a shelf in the cabinet behind him, wordlessly ordering Jongdae to hold on tight, “then I have the right,” with Jongdae’s arms out of the way, Yixing hooked his hands behind Jongdae and pulled him forward roughly, lining his bony hips up with the very edge of the counter, “the responsibility,” he yanked his briefs off Jongdae’s skinny frame in one motion, letting them land on the floor, leaving Jongdae breathless and needy, his rosy, raw cock curving up toward his abdomen, knuckles bloodless with effort to hold onto the shelf behind, “to punish you when you deserve it.”

        Yixing brought his hands to Jongdae’s knees, slowly forcing his beautiful legs apart even more, exposing him fully, his skin chilled against the cool stone. Yixing watched Jongdae’s mouth fall open as the strain in his pelvis sharpened, but he kept his hands aloft, following Yixing’s lead.

        “That seems fair, doesn’t it?” Yixing dragged his hands up Jongdae’s thighs, pausing just before reaching Jongdae’s pulsing cock. A little groan escaped Jongdae’s lovely, trembling lips, and Yixing laughed once. “No? You disagree? M _hm_ …” Yixing lowered his head, his fingers pressed into Jongdae’s bare upper thighs, and exhaled heavy, hot breath across Jongdae’s hard-on, sending a desperate shock through his boy’s sensitive nerves. “You just want to be spoiled, is that it?” Yixing straightened up again, stepping forward to press his own growing erection against the lower cabinets, a small relief for that growing ache. He examined Jongdae’s ripped, fiery expression, just a few inches away, the edgy bliss in Jongdae’s eyes more than enough encouragement to continue on this path. “Answer me. Do you expect me to spoil you?”

        “I… _yes_ , daddy, I’m sorry.” The sugary veneer of innocence was gone from Jongdae’s voice, though it sounded even younger to Yixing’s ears now, all whisper thin and submissive. He nodded, a swell of affection lifting his heart at Jongdae’s willingness to sink deeper into their new dynamic. He rewarded Jongdae with a small smile.

        “That’s right. You think you can just flash your pretty legs at me, pout your lips at me and you’ll get whatever you want.” Yixing cocked his head a little, his expression mild, though his voice remained low and controlled. “But that’s not love, little one. That’s manipulation.” Yixing leaned forward, closing the gap between them slowly. He paused, their mouths close enough to share breath, his words falling right into Jongdae’s parted lips. “If this is going to work, if you really want to be mine, you have to trust me to be good to you. You can’t try to play me like this, baby.” Yixing’s thumbs moved up half an inch, pressing into the vulnerable dips on either side of Jongdae’s untouched cock, driving Jongdae mad with need. “You ask me, you tell me what you need, and I’ll give it to you. None of this sneaky teasing. You have to trust me.”

        “I do, I’m sorry, I just wanted to…” Jongdae leaned forward, his lips barely brushing against Yixing’s before Yixing pulled back. Jongdae flushed. “I’m s-sorry. I… I just want you so bad. I waited for you for so long, and you weren’t here yesterday and I…”

        Yixing suddenly brought his left hand up to Jongdae’s chin, his fingers holding his jaw tightly, thumb pressed against his plush bottom lip, his nail just touching the edge of his front teeth. His right hand moved in tandem, gripping Jongdae’s cock firmly, Yixing exercising his control. Both touches were rough and intensely satisfying for Jongdae, who twitched in his defenseless position under Yixing’s sensuous glare.

        “Stealing a kiss like that? And trying to guilt me into giving you what you want? You’re worse than I thought.” Jongdae quivered, desperate for Yixing to move his hand, give him some friction, some release from his sensory prison. But Yixing’s grip, while tense and exhilarating, remained frozen. “I’m serious, Jongdae. I may be new to this, but I’m not playing any games with you.”

        The words registered in Jongdae’s mind after a second, and through his lust and hunger and exploration of his sexual submission to Yixing, he heard a deeper truth. Wrapped up in whatever roles they took on with each other, Yixing was being honest in this moment, and it demanded an honest response. Jongdae blinked and looked into Yixing’s smoldering brown eyes.

        “Yixing, I’m sorry...”

        “I don’t want you to be sorry, baby. I want you to listen. I want you to trust me.”

        Jongdae felt the sting of tears well up in his eyes, a combination of his borderline painful erection and the hint of disappointment in Yixing’s voice.

        “Crying won’t work either, little one. No. You need discipline.”

        The word smacked in Jongdae’s brain, sending him into a frenzy.

        “So if you’re really in for this, I need to know you’re in for _all_ of it.” Yixing dipped his thumb into Jongdae’s mouth, finding the taut, wet tip of his tongue. Jongdae’s eyes widened as he held his mouth open just enough to let Yixing in, trying so hard to stay still.

        Yixing leaned in, shifting his thumb to the corner of Jongdae’s mouth, slipping his own tongue along Jongdae’s teeth before taking him, forcing him back with his kiss. His tongue moved like he _owned_ Jongdae, slipping through the messy heat, when his other hand _finally_ pumped a few forceful, dry strokes up Jongdae’s needy length. The sensations, the absolute absence of power pried a little whimper out of Jongdae’s throat. But as soon as he’d approached, Yixing was gone again, pulling his hands away completely, leaving Jongdae gasping.

        He spoke with the same cool, commanding voice as before, though his eyes shimmered with a new intensity as he stared Jongdae down.

        “What a mess you are.” His eyes scoured Jongdae’s body, appreciating the shaky strain in his forearms held above his head, the rise and fall of his boyish, lean chest, the flex of his hips against dark stone, and his cock, harder than Yixing had seen it before, trembling with need, heavy in the air as Jongdae struggled to obey.

        “You look good, baby, I won’t deny it.” Jongdae risked a quick look at Yixing’s own erection, contained in loose sweats. Yixing caught it though and clicked his tongue.

        “See? I want you. You _know_ what you do to me. That’s the problem.” Jongdae looked confused, effort to understand Yixing’s words cutting through his breathy arousal.

        “Let me fix it then. I’ll do anything. Whatever you want.” Jongdae pleaded.

        “I don’t think so…” Yixing’s mind was working fast, playing through various scenarios. Jongdae, as motionless as if he was restrained, saw the flash of excitement across Yixing’s face, a suppressed smile only revealed by the deepened dimple in his cheek.

        Yixing looked up to Jongdae’s hands, still anchored to the shelf, then back to his eyes.

        “Don’t move.” An unequivocal command. Jongdae nodded.

        With just that inkling of a smile as warning, Yixing was on Jongdae again, this time with more fervor and insistence. His hands immediately snaked up Jongdae’s shirt, finding his prominent shoulder blades, kneading into his skin. As his tongue immediately went to work on Jongdae’s neck, Jongdae felt Yixing’s waist slot between his thighs. The combined effect of so much attention ate at Jongdae too quickly; he moaned at the heat, hooking his ankles around Yixing’s legs, trying to scoot forward just a little to the very edge of the counter, aching to be touched, willing Yixing’s hand around his cock again.

        Yixing felt the immediate reaction in the body beneath him, and laughed against Jongdae’s throat.

        “Discipline, Jongdae. Don’t move.” Jongdae whinnied, apology and protest mingled together, encouraging another laugh out of Yixing as he let his hands run back down Jongdae’s spine. Yixing kissed his way along Jongdae’s neck, edging the collar of his shirt away a bit before latching onto the thin skin above his clavicle, sucking in hard, letting his tongue flick at the surface. Jongdae hissed, enjoying the sudden sensation, the tiny pinch of pain Yixing pulled out of him. Yixing worked the skin with his lips, building a harsh, targeted suction, as his hands snuck around to Jongdae’s hips, holding him steady on the counter.

        He held fast with his lips, digging his teeth in a bit, drunk on the feeling of holding Jongdae hostage. With the intoxicating incentive of Jongdae’s gasps filling him up, Yixing gave in, letting his fingers return to Jongdae’s pitifully hard cock. Jongdae groaned, audibly relieved at the touch, and Yixing stroked the full length of him with a pressure he’d committed to memory.

        To his credit, Jongdae did stay relatively still, though his voice made up for his stifled motion. With Jongdae pliant and quaking against him, all splayed open on the counter like this, Yixing felt like he was losing his mind. The sound of it seemed to sink into his very skin: his hand gaining momentum around Jongdae’s cock, that maddening thrill of skin on skin, the movement aided by Jongdae’s shiny precum, and Jongdae’s fervent moans, the accidental clack of his teeth as he clenched his jaw, resisting the overwhelming urge to reciprocate Yixing’s attention. Releasing his lips from Jongdae’s skin, Yixing heard his own rasping breath added to the noise.

        His hands continued to work Jongdae over as he straightened his neck back up, eying his handiwork. He relished the rush of blood under Jongdae’s pale neck, so close to the surface, flooding those smooth, sweet layers of skin, provoked by his touch. There, were his lips had been just seconds ago, a constellation of broken blood vessels. If he had bitten a little harder, he might have done real damage. Yixing’s hand sped up, the focused, repetitive pressure around Jongdae’s cockhead yanking garbled cries from his lips.

        “Yixing! I – I’m close – ” Jongdae whined the warning as he clutched the shelf above him, his wrists aching with the odd angle.

        Yixing smiled.

        “Good. Time for that punishment we talked about.” Yixing’s voice came out in a growl, breathed out onto Jongdae’s newly bruised skin.

        Suddenly the warmth of Yixing’s hand shifted down, away from the sensitive, darkened head of Jongdae’s cock. He turned his head, finding Jongdae’s borderline panicked expression looking right back at him, and tightened his grip, clasping the circumference of his hard-on right at the base. Jongdae’s eyes fluttered, searching Yixing’s face frantically, finding cool amusement playing on his controlled features.

        “What…” Jongdae started, sputtering out the syllable without any idea what question to ask after it.

        “Do you trust me, Jongdae?”

        Jongdae’s fingers were numb, having been held aloft for so long, and his ass was sore on the unyielding counter. His back was starting to hurt, arched and tensed like this, but nothing compared to the insistent strain in his gut. He need to come. He was so close, and his nerves were screaming to be satisfied, but Yixing was staring at him with a glorious mix of possession and power.

        “Yes!” Jongdae cried out, desperate for Yixing to believe him.

        With every second Yixing held him steady, the urgency snuck back a little more, the singular need to come submitting to Yixing’s demand. Jongdae’s gasps evened out, and Yixing brought his other hand up to wipe away the beads of sweat that had gathered at his temples.

        “We’ll see,” Yixing purred before leaning in for a greedy kiss, sliding his hand back up Jongdae’s length, picking up where he left off. Jongdae gasped, holding his lips together in a taut line. Yixing wasted no time; he quickly dropped his mouth, taking in the swollen crown in his mouth, slicking up the sides with his tongue. He dipped down further, taking in more of Jongdae’s hardness, pleased with the swell he felt building back up under the sensitive flesh inside his mouth.

        Not a minute later, Jongdae felt the impending pressure accumulating inside him, and kicked his foot backwards, an accidental outlet for his pent up energy as he tried to stay in the same position as Yixing commanded, ramming a heel backwards into the cabinet. The door rattled at the contact and Jongdae let out a little groan of pain and frustration.

        Yixing immediately paused and lifted off Jongdae’s dick, straightening up again as he replaced his fingers around the hard base, pressing into the flushed skin just enough.

        “We’re not making much progress, are we?” Yixing appraised his boy again, the strain in his muscles evident at a glance.

        “Daddy, _please_ …”

        “Please, what? This is a punishment, remember? Yixing brought his hand up to Jongdae’s neck, pulling the collar aside to look at the bruise he’d wrought once again, pleased at the enduring crimson color. “I’ll ask you one more time.” Yixing found Jongdae’s eyes again as he asked the question. “Do you trust me?”

        Jongdae blinked, the acidic ache in his body starting to wear at him. It did hurt, his inexperience bucked under the pressure, but he’d been craving this, fantasizing as long as he could remember for this sort of challenge, for someone to push him and pull him back from the edge. And he couldn’t deny that with Yixing’s hand firmly around him, the gatekeeper of his pleasure and pain, he knew he’d found it. Now all he had to do was _earn_ it.

        “Yes. I trust you.” Jongdae took a deep breath and strengthened his grip on the shelf.

        Yixing felt a jolt of pride, suppressing a smile as he rolled his thumb across the underside of Jongdae’s length, working his hand back up toward the crown. Jongdae closed his eyes, determined to impress Yixing, to satisfy him with his restraint and obedience.

        Yixing took his time, his fingers playing at Jongdae’s skin softer than before, the other hand looped around to ease some of the pressure on his lower back, gleaning little kitten mewls as he went.

        They synced together. Jongdae held himself steady as Yixing stroked him, almost lazily, with long, inconsistent strokes, ducking down to lick fleetingly at the tip, tasting precum. Jongdae knew he’d signed his own fate; Yixing hadn’t been one to tease before now, rather this torturously slow, delaying treatment was his chosen penalty for Jongdae’s own self-indulgence.

        But despite Yixing’s lagging pace, Jongdae was already too worked up. Yixing’s hot breath on his skin made him feel dizzy, ready to collapse with need and fatigue. He couldn’t feel his fingers, but he trusted his will power to keep them where they belonged above him. His breathing quickened, his moans came faster and higher pitched, and _again_ , Yixing paused, feeling the tremor of Jongdae’s hips beneath him.

        For the third time, Jongdae was deprived of his climax, the blissful heat and pressure gone again.

        Jongdae’s voice ground out of him, a ripping, feral sound filling the room. But he remained, stalwart and still and drenched in sweat from the cyclical misery Yixing was inflicting.

        “Good boy.”

        And Yixing was there, swallowing Jongdae down, pumping the base of his cock with one hand, massaging his balls with the other. He hummed his praise as he sucked, the hollows of his cheeks vibrating with the effort.

        Any pretense fell away as Jongdae’s mind blanked out. He held on as long as he could, but Yixing’s hard-earned permission was too tempting. He shuddered, feeling the plummeting force below his stomach kick in.

        “Yixing! Y-Yixing! Please, daddy, please!” His voice tilted up, as if in question, careening out of control. Yixing held Jongdae as his hips jerked involuntarily, taking him entirely in his mouth just before he came.

        It coursed through him, furious and rough, surrounded by the slick suction of Yixing’s mouth. He whipped his head forward and back, smacking into the cabinet, rattling the glasses. Yixing sucked harder, flaying his tongue along the head, intent on breaking Jongdae with pleasure, destroying any notion he might have of playing games or manipulating Yixing again.

        Once he’d swallowed the bitter liquid, Yixing straightened up. To his surprise, Jongdae was still frozen in the same position, arms raised, legs spread painfully wide, his head balanced on the edge of the shelf, eyes closed.

        “Oh baby…”

        Yixing’s quickly moved to help Jongdae, a grimace shooting across his face as his drained body readjusted. Yixing placed each of Jongdae’s hands on his own shoulders, raising his eyebrows, offering.

        “Come here.” Jongdae sighed in relief and tightened his arms around Yixing’s neck, clinging to him as Yixing pulled him off the counter. They stood like that, wrapped up in each other, for a long minute, then another. Yixing warmed Jongdae’s tired arms back to life, kissing his damp hairline.

        “...daddy.” Jongdae’s mumble voice snuck up into Yixing’s ears.

        “I’m here.”

        “I…” Jongdae’s fingers tickled at Yixing’s neck. “I trust you. And… I want to be good for you. Like you said. I need discipline.”

        Yixing twitched, either at the feather-light touch under his ear or Jongdae’s pretty voice affirming Yixing’s first real venture into whatever this might be between them. He tucked his chin back to get a look at Jongdae’s face, pressing their foreheads together.

        “Yeah?”

        “Mhm. I like it.” Jongdae smiled sheepishly.

        “That’s good, little one.” But even as he spoke, playing his role, Yixing couldn’t resist that ruined little face, all feline eyes and sharp, flushed cheekbones, feeling any power he’d amassed in the last hour slip back into Jongdae’s possession with just a look.

        Yixing bent low, picking up Jongdae’s discarded underwear from the floor.

        “How about you quick change, and by the time you’re done, I’ll have this warmed up again.” Jongdae grinned again, both of them casting amused glances at the forgotten pan of now cold food.

\--- --- ---

        After that morning in the kitchen, Jongdae and Yixing fell further into each other. Yixing’s hesitance dissolved a little more every time he exercised authority over his boy. Jongdae responded with that same insatiable lust every time, bending to Yixing as he learned to own his role with confidence and conviction, feeling his love for Jongdae seep into every dark, unexplored corner of his being.

        Which is why when Yixing suggested Jongdae spend a few nights at home, barring any danger with his father, Jongdae listened, rather than protesting. Yixing knew he was being selfish, letting Jongdae stay for days and days like this. He held the reins now; he was responsible for Jongdae, and it was important that his mother not worry about his whereabouts, that he live out his obligations as a student and as a son. Jongdae quietly complied, assuring Yixing that his mother had come home the day before and he’d be safe there, if not particularly happy.

        So Jongdae stayed away per Yixing’s persuasion, texting affectionate, lonely messages sporadically. Yixing treasured each one as he spent his time banging out neglected projects and catching up on work, reconnecting with the outside world. In an unexpected way, he enjoyed the ache of Jongdae’s absence. It was the polar opposite experience from the last time – he may have been alone in his bed each night, but now he went to sleep excited and hopeful for Jongdae’s return, the reluctant optimist in him planning for Jongdae’s eighteenth birthday as he held a pillow close to his chest.

        The third evening, Yixing put away the last of his dishes after finishing his plain, simple dinner, reaching for his phone. It had buzzed while he’d been elbow deep in soapy water, the screen shining bright with a new message.

        Eager to hear about Jongdae’s day, Yixing swiped the screen, opening the text.

_hyung – you got any bday plans yet, you old fart? b and i wre thnking the beach might be fun! talk to jd, let me kno_

        Yixing barely had time to register his slight disappointment that he was reading Chanyeol’s words and not Jongdae’s when he heard a knock on his door.

        He flicked his eyes to the clock on his phone – 8:49pm. _Who might this be?_

        At first Yixing thought no one was out there, that he’d missed them. But as he craned his neck out onto the landing, he heard breathing to his immediate right. He turned to find someone clutching at the stucco wall beside Yixing’s front door, wheezing out weak breaths. They were crumpled, small in the shadow of the low ceiling, a roomy, hooded jacket only highlighting their thin frame.

        “Hello?” Yixing floundered for the right reaction, unsure how to approach.

        The figure whimpered, almost too quiet for Yixing to hear. But he’d trained his ears to that voice, heard it play in his ears as if every syllable were holy words.

        “Jongdae?!”

        He buckled against the wall, slumping to the ground clumsily. Yixing hurried over, hooking an arm around the other to support him, folding the hood away from his face with his free hand.

        Blood seeped from Jongdae’s dampened hair, a trail of the stuff drying in the curves of his left ear. His face was ghastly white, a frightened cast obscuring his handsome features.

        “What – Jongdae, what happened?!” Yixing coughed out, panic shooting through his limbs like knives. His eyes scanned Jongdae’s body; his jeans were torn at both knees, the skin beneath scraped and bleeding, and Jongdae was holding his stomach, his posture crooked and stooped in pain. Yixing’s panic amplified to true terror. “Jongdae, who did this to you?!”

        Jongdae closed his eyes, dropping his chin forward, curving in on himself fully.

        “My dad.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you [noraebangbang](http://archiveofourown.org/users/noraebangbang/pseuds/noraebangbang), for your encouragement and much needed cheer-leading.

                Yixing pulled Jongdae through the door into the kitchen, leading him to the same chair he had the first time Jongdae entered the apartment. Jongdae sat gingerly, muttering _I’m okay_ and _it’s not that bad_ as he eased his jacket off his arms, letting it gather around his waist. Déjà vu sank in as Yixing knelt on the floor between Jongdae’s knees, his hands unsure and hesitant.

                “What happened? _How_ did this happen?” Yixing stammered, scrutinizing Jongdae’s face to assess his condition. The blood around his forehead was almost entirely dried, stark brick red flaking above his eyebrow.

                “I – I told my m-mom about everything.”

Yixing exhaled all at once. His brain couldn’t react fast enough – _is this a good thing? what does this mean? what happened?_ – so Jongdae continued.

“I told her what happens when she leaves, but… he came home and we were still talking and she confronted him about everything I’d told her, and he – he went after her – ” Jongdae’s voice broke. He dropped his head, shallow breaths heavy on his chest.

                “Was he drunk?” Yixing tried to control his temper, but it felt like his blood had drained completely from his body, replaced by acidic, corrosive venom. Jongdae nodded limply, not meeting Yixing’s eyes.

                “He – he was screaming at her and I – I had to try to stop him, I couldn’t let him to do that to her, but he – ”

                Yixing breathed hotly through his nose, disgust and anger and sharp regret tensing his every muscle. Jongdae took a few seconds to gather himself, continuing in a small, tired voice.

                “It’s over now. My mom got rid of him. He’s gone.”

 _What?_ “What do you mean?”

                “She kicked him out. She called her brother I think, so he left. He – he’s gone.”

                Jongdae lifted his head, finding Yixing’s eyes. There was pain all over him, heavy on the surface, but the deeper he peered into Jongdae, he felt himself guessing at some deeper relief, an underlying exhaustion wrapped up in a possible resolution to this hell Jongdae had been living. Yixing sighed, reaching a hand up to touch the side of Jongdae’s face, fingertips grazing dark, dry rivulets of blood.

                “Why didn’t you call?” Yixing whispered, almost to himself. He couldn’t help it. Seeing Jongdae cowering outside his door, hauling him inside for the second time, flooded Yixing with both guilt and frustration. “Why didn’t you come here before this happened? I could have helped you.”

                Jongdae bit his lip, wincing a little at the words.

                “I know. I – ” He sniffed. “I know I messed up. I thought I could handle it. I’m so stupid.” Yixing watched a Jongdae’s face stretch and crumple with his emotions. “It’s all my fault.”

                “Stop.” Yixing brought his other hand up to frame Jongdae’s face. He held him there, blocking his descent into whatever self-loathing had landed him here. “None of this was your fault.”

                “Yes it is. I shouldn’t have been there. I should have told my mom before, and I should have been able to stop him.” Jongdae’s voice quivered with anger as he spoke, his eyes darting around. “My mom had to fix it for me. She shouldn’t have even had to know about it if I’d just dealt with it myself. But I’m weak.”

                His eyes settled on Yixing’s again, taut with tension.

                “And I don’t want to do this to _you_. I don’t want to make you worry and take care of me like this. You asked me to trust you. But I’m weak. And… I need you. And I didn’t want to admit it before.”

                Yixing tried to absorb the flurry of words, but his thoughts were interrupted as Jongdae leaned into him forcefully, sliding down from his chair, catching Yixing off guard with a messy, broken kiss. Jongdae mewled into Yixing’s agape mouth, hands borderline frantic as they grabbed at his neck and hair. Yixing’s overwhelmed, under-informed mind stalled out; instead, his muscle memory took the reins, urging his tongue to slither its way past Jongdae’s parted lips, his fingers gripping Jongdae’s head a little tighter. Jongdae scrambled to hook his thin legs around Yixing’s waist, his groans resonating in Yixing’s fucked out head, planting his ass firmly in Yixing’s lap.

                They kissed, slotting their lips and tongues together crudely, but with each second, Yixing felt a shift in the boy latched around him.

                Jongdae sucked Yixing’s bottom lip into his mouth, tonguing it from between his teeth, as his hands clutched at Yixing’s collar roughly. Letting it go with a smack, he bared his teeth, some guttural noise seeping out of him, his voice an odd mix of grit and arrogance, shifting his lips down to Yixing’s neck, where he tore into the pale skin with carnal insistence. Yixing couldn’t get his thoughts in order with Jongdae’s mouth and hands and hips on him like this. He croaked out incoherent syllables, an attempt at restraint. Jongdae replied, keening into his neck, words hot against grated skin.

                “I need you. I fucked up and I need you to punish me for it.”

                It wasn’t a request. It wasn’t whined or begged. Yixing heard the layers of contempt and toil and desperation in Jongdae’s voice, too wild and sharp to leave room for acting. This was new, darker than before.

                Yixing felt his own veins practically tearing through his skin, his very blood trying to escape his body to be closer to Jongdae. He closed his eyes, willing a few more fleeting seconds of lucidity to judge _what the fuck was happening._

                “Jongdae…?”

                In his mind it was a question, but it came out like an answer.

                As he clamored for words, for some fleeting rationality, Yixing felt something slick against his neck as Jongdae moved to stretch his shirt collar open, gaining access to his chest, dipping his mouth down to the thrumming, exposed skin. Yixing’s eyes fluttered open; he brought his hand to his neck, two fingers lightly swiping at the sticky moisture. It had a thin texture, not like spit, and it was streaky, already starting to dry under his ear. He brought his hand around behind Jongdae’s head, holding it up to see.

                The pads of his first two digits were painted with a thin, splotchy coat of Jongdae’s blood. Yixing gasped a little, angling his fingers against each other, the coppery, dangerous smell of it filling him up. He wondered what his neck must look like.

                Jongdae licked a thick line up Yixing’s chest, the sound of wet friction mixing with their rapid breathing. He traced Yixing’s adam’s apple slowly with his tongue, pulling away off the peak of his chin, a biting, metallic taste on his tongue. He blinked a few times, breath rhythmic through his teeth, but paused when he saw Yixing’s expression. His eyes flicked to Yixing’s lidded, disturbed ones, then down to the crimson mess on his neck, then over to his outstretched hand.

                “Oh.” Jongdae whispered. He reached his own hand up tentatively, just barely touching the dark, shiny patch of red in his hair. He didn’t wince; rather, he slowly threaded his fingers through the tangled, sticky strands, marking his knuckles with little red threads of his own blood, his eyes on Yixing the whole time. Dragging his messy fingers down his jaw, then his neck, echoing the mark he’d left on Yixing, Jongdae tipped his head to the side, just a bit, watching Yixing for a response.

                Yixing stuttered, his eyes darting between his bloodied fingers and Jongdae’s, which were reaching out to touch the red steak on his neck. A black, coiled heat formed somewhere in his core, a scaled, clawed thing jolted by the sight. Jongdae licked his lips, picking up just the palest taste of blood. He gripped Yixing’s shoulder roughly and suddenly snapped his hips, grinding down hard, feeling Yixing’s thick, fully hard cock pressed up against him. Yixing coughed out his breath, shocked. Jongdae thrust down again, then again, then again, reveling in the rock hard bulge that dug into his needy ass each time, leaving little red claw marks on the collar of Yixing’s shirt.

                But as abruptly as he started, Jongdae stopped moving, eyes raking into Yixing for a response. Their bodies still shifted together as they inhaled and exhaled each other, but Jongdae held off his advance, waiting.

                Yixing crushed his tongue between his teeth. He should be calling the police. He should be cleaning Jongdae up, checking his injuries like he had once before. He shouldn’t be letting this continue. But how could he deny this now, since he was more aroused, more sharply attuned to his own body and the lithe, fragile, vulnerable body wrapped around him, than he knew himself capable of being. There was no reality except them, the pulsing, beating rhythm between them; Yixing plummeted into the depths of himself, determined to satisfy the craving he felt rooted deep within him.

                He felt the last vestige of control fall off some cliff inside him as he brought his fingers up to Jongdae’s face, an offering.

                “Oh… yes.” Jongdae gasped out his enthusiasm, taking Yixing’s fingers into his mouth, immediately slicking his tongue between them, sucking his blood off the creases and crooks of each knuckle.

                Yixing felt dizzy with the sensation, feeling Jongdae’s submission leak out of him with each pull of his fingers, watching his blood and spit mix, glossing Jongdae’s lips the prettiest pale red. Jongdae guided Yixing’s hand by the wrist, taking in another finger, sloppily coating them with the hot slick of his mouth. He wracked his hips again, clenching his ass down to feel Yixing’s thick cock straining to be inside him through their clothes. Yixing’s jaw moved soundlessly, his full lips open and trembling as Jongdae held his wrist tightly, dipping four of his fingers into his mouth again and again, faster, his tongue flat and pliant under them. His eyes rolled back, fucking his mouth with Yixing’s fingers, sick, hot sounds setting Yixing on edge with need. He shifted his free hand to Jongdae’s heaving hips, angling so he could press his palm and along the trapped length of him.

                A little cry swam around Yixing’s fingers, vibrating at the back of Jongdae’s throat at the touch. Yixing pushed harder, pressuring Jongdae’s erection inside his jeans. Another cry, and Jongdae was shaking, slipping Yixing’s fingers out of his mouth, a drop of pink spit falling onto his lip. His ass twitched erratically on Yixing’s lap, lost for more, more of Yixing’s hand on him, more of Yixing’s cock against him.

                “Daddy…” he sang out, so softly, filthy and broken with need. The beast lurking in Yixing’s gut growled, unsure if this was the angel he’d come to love so dearly, or if Jongdae was possibly as devious as he suspected he himself was. He ran his knuckles against the jutting front of Jongdae’s pants, sending a shiver along his scalp.

                Jongdae tilted his head back, closing his eyes, and brought Yixing’s hand to his neck.

                “Please…” he whined out, arching his back and bucking his hips.

                Yixing touched curiously at the streaks of blood drying on Jongdae’s soft white skin, the lovely angle of red down his face, around his ear, along his vulnerable throat. His other hand dragged up the denim faster, a heat building on the thick fabric, irritating his knuckles. Jongdae let go of the hand on his neck, hesitantly pawing at Yixing’s other hand instead, whimpering for more.

                “Please… punish me.”

                A painful jolt in Yixing’s cock drove him out of his senses. He saw it clearly, like he had with the imagined mural of tattoos a few weeks before, Jongdae’s body limply dependent and connected to him, submissive on a base level. He moved his hand away from Jongdae’s aching cock, bringing it up to his chin, tipping Jongdae’ face down a little to look him in the eye.

                “You trust me?”

                Jongdae’s mouth hung open, his tongue quivering just behind his teeth, sloppy and desperate. He nodded, bleary eyes locking in for that crucial moment of understanding.

                “Touch yourself. Let me see how wasted you already are.”

                Under Yixing’s rasped, cutting command, Jongdae unbuttoned his jeans and shoved his hand inside, a high, strangled sound wrung out of him as he shifted his pants low enough to free his throbbing dick, the tip already shining wet. He stroked a few times, but he was so hard, so intensely aroused that he felt raw against his own skin. He moved clumsily, his voice cracking and skittering oh little _ah_ s as he tried to obey Yixing’s demand. He eased into it, thumbing at the swollen head, rolling his hips as the minutes ticked by.

                Yixing watched him closely, measuring every movement, biding his time. His fingers went to work massaging Jongdae’s neck, his jaw, curling around his ear and teasing the lobe. Jongdae sped up, building a rhythm, working the whole length then focusing tighter pulls on the tip, squeezing in time with his quickened breaths.

                Yixing murmured the usual pretty words at him, letting the comfort of familiarity coax Jongdae nearer to the edge. He saw a sheen of sweat start to form at his temples, re-saturating the dried blood. A bead of the combined fluids trembled above Jongdae’s eye, its weight gaining just enough to fall, trickling down the arc of Jongdae’s cheekbone and jaw, running a little wet slice through the lovely red smear on his neck. Yixing’s pulse felt dependent on that drop, marking his target, inviting him to make his move. His fingers curved around Jongdae’s neck, catching the sweat and spreading it in with the blood, marking his hands with the stuff.

                “You look good in red, Jongdae. It suits you.”

                Jongdae’s eyes flashed open, his aching arm stalling for a moment.

                “Yixing, please… I’m close…”

                Yixing fixed his eyes on Jongdae’s fading ones, digging in for that link he knew they shared.

                “Good. Now I can properly punish you.” Yixing spat out the words, then tightened both hands around Jongdae’s neck, pressing in with the bridge between his thumbs and index fingers, cutting off Jongdae’s windpipe. Jongdae’s eyes opened wide, massive and blank. For an instant, Yixing’s stomach turned over, worry shooting through him that he’d made some horrible mistake, but then he heard the sound of smacking, slick skin – Jongdae had started pumping his cock again, frantic and too tight.

                “That’s right. You want this. You want this pain, don’t you?” Yixing held firm, a steady, unrelenting pressure around that perfect pale throat. Jongdae might have keened at the words, but he was deadly silent, only his hand’s unstable strokes and Yixing’s cold voice spurring them on.

                “ _This_ is weak, Jongdae. _This_ is how you really are.” Jongdae’s lips gaped open, an ugly flush flooding his cheeks, the blood on his face shining with the added layer of sweat. Yixing felt a tremor in his gut, a wrenching stab of arousal. He had to finish this quickly.

                Jongdae’s eyes fluttered, unfocused, but his hand only gripped harder, his other free hand reaching out and gripping a fistful of Yixing’s shirt.

                “This is how you need to be loved. This is what you deserve. I see you. And you’re _perfect_ like this…” Jongdae’s body started to shake. _Just a few more seconds._ “Now come.”

                Jongdae convulsed, his cum spurting out of him over his hand and onto Yixing’s shirt. As soon as Yixing felt that familiar tremor, he released his hold on Jongdae, leaving beautiful patterns behind, his possession and power stamped into Jongdae’s skin, marked by blood. He moved one hand around to support the back of Jongdae’s neck, which was threatening to flop backwards onto the floor; he felt Jongdae shiver through the waves of his orgasm, watched him ride out the total loss of control in Yixing’s grip, the bliss of breath and release meeting in the same instant.

                Jongdae’s wide open mouth silently howled, then sucked in a hollow, heart-deep gasp, air filling him up again. The sound of it, the dangerous, precious balance between pain and pleasure, had Yixing unraveling. He bucked his hips once, feeling Jongdae’s body so pliant around him, the smell of blood and sex singeing his nose, before he came too, the unbearable confines of his pants adding to the intensity.

                Jongdae choked out a few more awkward breaths, setting his lungs on fire with the urgency, his arms falling to his sides. Yixing pulled him close, tipping his weight onto his chest, his head settling on Yixing’s shoulder. Jongdae’s breathing started to normalize, the in and out of it bringing Yixing back down from his high.

                They remained entwined on the floor, both dazed, Yixing running his hand along Jongdae’s back soothingly. After a while, he turned to look at him, wondering if he may have fallen asleep. The fabric of his shirt, along with the side of Jongdae’s face and neck, were bloodied, yanking Yixing back into reality.

                Jongdae had assured him, albeit briefly, that he wasn’t badly hurt, but now that his body was satisfied, Yixing’s mind shot back into focus.

“Jongdae?”

                A whimper, broken and pained and deeply satisfied, escaped his parted red lips.

                “Baby, are you okay? Talk to me, please.”

                Jongdae’s eyes blinked open, his previously flaming cheeks drained now to an anemic white.

                “I feel…” His voice was shredded, stunningly beautiful in Yixing’s ears. “I feel _full._ ”

                Yixing brought his thumb up to trace the tracks left behind by tears and sweat on Jongdae’s face. In response, Jongdae nuzzled into Yixing a little more, his body totally worn out and aching. His lips barely moved as he spoke, his words muffled against Yixing’s shoulder.

                “You emptied me. And you filled me back up.”

                The words felt like a cool, cleansing rain; in those fleeting moments, he’d reached some transcendent place, justified and affirmed for who he was, who he’d probably always been, who he’d been terrified to even acknowledge by someone who’d seen the rawest parts of him, gave himself completely, and still wanted more. There were demons to tackle outside, terrors that they would have to face, but they were inextricably tied together, bonded and braced against each other. Yixing leaned down, kissing the hollow just under Jongdae’s jaw.

_Little one. You’ve done the same for me._


	13. Chapter 13

                It had taken a full hour of Yixing’s attentive hovering before Jongdae could convince him he wasn’t too badly hurt. His twin skinned knees received a gentle application of antibiotic cream and carefully placed bandages, while his head wound, which ended up being just a minor cut despite its gory appearance, was cleaned and wrapped. Jongdae had whined about the ridiculous length of gauze wound around his forehead, claiming it was overkill, but he quieted down when Yixing threatened to haul him off to the emergency room for the expertise of professionals.

                Once the physical damage was managed, Yixing attempted to further decipher what had happened and, more importantly, what needed to be done from here.

                “It’s just not worth worrying about anymore. He’s gone. He left. It’s over.” Jongdae’s voice fell into a tired tone as he answered, pushing his spoon around his half-empty bowl of soup.

                “I hear what you’re saying, and I understand that you don’t want to think about it more than you have to, but… he can’t get away with what he did to you, Jongdae.” Yixing sat across from him, forearms resting on the table, leaning forward a bit as if proximity might help his case. But Jongdae shook his head.

                “You’re right. I don’t want to think about it. It’s done, he won’t be a problem anymore, so why can’t we just move on from here?” He let his spoon go with a little clink against the ceramic. He didn’t sound impatient or annoyed; had he, Yixing might have pressed more. Instead, there was a weariness about Jongdae, in his insular posture and lidded, almost drooping eyes. He looked beaten, in more ways than one, though no longer defensive. He was safe, the danger had passed. Now recovery could begin.

                “Okay.” Yixing extended one arm across the table, his hand palm-side up. Jongdae looked at the offering, then at Yixing’s warm, gentle face.

                “So I can stay here?”

                “Of course. Just… make sure your mom knows you’re okay.” Yixing was still uncomfortable not knowing how Jongdae and his mom were interacting, what she knew and what she might be worried about, but he couldn’t deny Jongdae’s request to stay, not now, not ever.

\--- --- ---

                After a night of cuddling and murmured affirmations, Yixing re-examined Jongdae’s bumps and bruises, fussing over him while Jongdae sipped at an overly sugared mug of coffee as the sun came up. The cut behind his hairline already looked better and Jongdae’s mood was similarly improved. He smiled, resting his chin on Yixing’s shoulder as Yixing cooked a quick breakfast for them both, his thumbs toying with the drawstring of Yixing’s soft sweatpants.

                Though Jongdae suggested they spend the day that way, relaxed and comfortable together in the idyllic haven of the apartment, Yixing couldn’t be swayed. He ruffled Jongdae’s hair, the two of them sitting side by side on the balcony as they ate; he insisted Jongdae take school seriously, offering to drive him by his house to pick up any books or notes he needed.

                “Oh, right…” Jongdae chewed at his lips as his eyes darted away from Yixing, out over the railing. He squinted a bit and readjusted his position in his chair, his voice low, vaguely concerned. “I forgot to bring my stuff with me…”

                Yixing furrowed his brows together.

                “Well, considering the state you were in when you left, I don’t know how you would have remembered to grab your school bag…” He pictured Jongdae running from his house, blood starting to seep down his forehead, a frightened grimace slashed across his face. It’s not that he forgot so much as he fled from being attacked.

                Jongdae turned to Yixing, registered his response, and quickly smiled.

                “You’re right. Yeah… Um… I don’t really need to go to my house, I don’t think. I can get by today without my stuff…” He fiddled with the hair at the nape of his neck, eyes averting again to the floor.

                “You sure? If we leave soon we can get you to school in plenty of time. I don’t – ”

                “No, I don’t think so.” Jongdae cut Yixing off, squinting out into the bright morning again. “I don’t want to go there if I don’t have to.”

                “But it’ll just take a minute – ”

                “ _I don’t want to_.” Jongdae gripped the armrest of his chair firmly as he spoke, his voice a little shrill with his resolution. “ _Please_. I don’t want to go back there. It’s too soon.”

                Yixing balked. Jongdae had been so amiable and comfortable this morning, it was jarring to see this sudden reaction from his suggestion. But he couldn’t ask Jongdae to do something that clearly made him this upset, however strange Yixing found his response.

                “Okay, alright, I’m sorry. It’s your choice.” Jongdae’s breathing had heightened, his chest heaving just a little. Yixing reached out and covered Jongdae’s tense hand with his own, rubbing the tendons and muscles to ease away the panic that had set him off. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to push you.”

                “I know…” Jongdae closed his eyes and exhaled though his nose, calming himself. “I know you didn’t.” He looked at Yixing again, his fingers separating a bit to make room for Yixing’s to fall into place, lacing their hands together. “I’m sorry, I just don’t feel safe going there just yet. Being here, away from all of that, it helps me forget. And that’s all I want for now. I…”

                “You don’t need to justify anything to me.” Yixing squeezed Jongdae’s hand a little. “It’s not my place to ask that of you,” Yixing reassured Jongdae as best he could, but Jongdae’s eyes peaked as he spoke.

                “But it is!” He shifted to face Yixing in his chair. “I want you to handle me…” It came out faster than either of them were expecting it. It’s not like it was a new concept; they’d played out the dom/sub dynamic enough times to be comfortable with it, but Yixing still felt a little jolt in his heart at the word. _Handle. Discipline. Dominate._

“Little one…” Yixing answered Jongdae’s request with a low, warm tone, speaking the name to both console and control his boy. “You don’t have to go back until you’re ready to… but you do have to go to school. You can’t hide out here, okay?” He angled his chin down, peering at Jongdae’s flushed cheeks.

                “Yes, daddy.” Jongdae admitted a small smile, and leaned over, marking the tip of Yixing’s thin, handsome nose with a kiss.

\--- --- ---

                Yixing dropped Jongdae off at the side entrance of his school, watching him join the other students a little reluctantly, his lack of school bag apparent amongst the sea of better-prepared students. Seeing him go, Yixing felt anxiety creep into his gut, a thin layer of suspicion and anger forming in his throat. But he tamped it down, feeding his panic a determined, well-timed plan, quieting it, at least for now.

                Though it had only been a few months that he’d even known Jongdae existed, their time together was so often spent observing, learning, sating the bottomless hunger they felt to simply _know_ the other person, that Yixing was immediately skeptical of Jongdae’s behavior since he’d shown up on his doorstep the evening before. Sure, Jongdae was sexually insatiable. He was needy in that way, and they’d built a relationship based on that give and take. But there was something off about his broken, almost whipped posture outside his front door paired with his maniacal lust only minutes later, his mellow complacency that morning so suddenly shattered by the suggestion of stopping by his house. Yixing had thought about it all night and all morning, toying with the hidden messages in Jongdae’s movements and phrasing. _Why would he leave his mom, if his father was so violent? Why did he tell his mother what was going on, but then insist on hiding out here? Why wouldn’t he want to press charges, ensure that this never happened again? Especially if he is as scared of him as he seems to be?_

Yixing’s mind had toiled over these questions internally, judging and assessing the situation silently as he harbored Jongdae, creating a safe space for him to settle. He was in a tough spot: he had no claim on Jongdae, and if he were to intervene on his behalf in some way, it was possible he’d in fact come under fire for his inappropriate relationship with him, particularly with his mother. He couldn’t even feign regret for his involvement, not now, but he had to be cautious. He had to protect Jongdae, like he had promised, but that meant treading the dangerous line between Jongdae’s wish to leave the situation alone, and bringing a volatile, disgusting criminal to justice. However his path forward would play out, Yixing first needed more information. He had to know what he was dealing with, outside of Jongdae’s experience.

                He exited the parking lot of Jongdae’s school, turning not toward his office, but toward the residential neighborhoods. He wound his way along smaller, quiet roads by memory, a nervous energy focusing his attention ahead.

                He was just a block away from his destination, idling at a stop sign, when a smallish man, maybe fifty or so years old, made his way toward the crosswalk in front of Yixing’s car. He was holding three wooden chairs, stacked together, their mass both obscuring his vision and torqueing his back at an odd, uncomfortable angle. Yixing waited, letting the man shuffle along, taking small steps in all-white sneakers as he approached the street. An uneasy feeling stirred in him as he watched. Another few steps…

                “Sir! Sir! _Ahjussi!_ ”  

                Yixing yanked his car into park and ejected out of the driver’s side door, calling out to the man. He moved awkwardly around the hood as the man readjusted his bulky load, miss-stepping off the edge of the concrete curb into the street. Yixing lunged forward as the chairs toppled to the ground, the man’s arms extended out, grabbing at the air.

                Caught by the elbows, the man sank into Yixing’s capable arms, a wheezy heave of breath escaping him on impact. Yixing strengthened his footing on the gravelly tar, helping the man stand up straight again, keeping a hand to his elbow for support.

                “Sir, are you alright?”

                The man’s face was worn, though not unkind; his features suggested that he was handsome once, a straight brow, angular cheekbones, and a square chin framing a pleasant mouth, though his skin was dull and tired, years of hardship obvious in the deep lines around his eyes. He was at least six inches shorter than Yixing, possibly even a full foot, and he had a stooped posture, though that may have been compensation for the stress of carrying the three chairs.

                “Yes, yes, I’m fine...” He paused a beat, flattening his hands against his stomach, a little stability check. “Thanks to you!” he said, more brightly, as his concerned expression tilted up into a grateful smile. He peered up at Yixing, his eyes squinting and sweet. “I’d have been flat on the ground if you hadn’t sprung up!” He extended his hand, small and calloused, toward Yixing. “You’ve saved the day, young man!”

                Yixing couldn’t help returning the amiable expression, grasping the older man’s hand, feeling the cracked, dry fingers warmly grip his long, clean ones.

                “Lucky timing, sir.” He nodded his head toward the fallen chairs. “Would you like help carrying those?”

                The man looked down, appraising with a little tilt of his head.

                “You know, I might have to take you up on that.” The quality of the man’s voice was familiar to Yixing in some way; perhaps he reminded him of his own father, the vague, strong pillar of Yixing’s youth. The man winked, grinning playfully. “Wouldn’t want to test my luck twice, now would I?”

                Yixing parked his car closer to the curb before returning to the older man, easily hoisting the three chairs into his arms.

                “You lead the way, sir.”

                “Polite and charitable. Quite a fine young man, you are,” he said almost conspiratorially, his infectious smile causing Yixing to bow his head a bit. They started off together, the older man walking half a step ahead of Yixing, leading him down the street. “It’s not far. I need to bring these home to repair them.” He gestured to the chairs as he spoke. “All of them wobble a bit; something about the legs, I think. I’ll fix them, spruce up the paint maybe, then I’ll haul them back up to the restaurant tomorrow.”

                “Oh, do you work in a restaurant nearby?”

                “I own the joint! My wife and I run the little noodle place about four blocks back.”

                “The one with the dark green awning? And there’s sometimes a dog out front? I’ve been there! Great food.”

                “I like to think so. Keeps me out of trouble, anyway.”

                “I can imagine. There always seems to be a line out the door when I drive by.”

                “We do just fine. It’d be nice to be home more, spend time with our son, but I can’t complain. This neighborhood’s been good to us.”

                Yixing realigned the chairs to rest on his other shoulder, keeping the easy pace the man set.

                “You have a son?”

                “Mm. He’s in high school, busy with friends all the time. He’s an independent type, like his mother.” The man pointed out in front of him, turning his head a bit toward Yixing. “Not far, I live just up ahead.”

                Yixing looked up, following the man’s indication. They were passing small houses on either side, houses that registered in Yixing’s memory.

                “He’s a smart boy, graduating this year. That’s partly why my wife and I haven’t hired much help at the restaurant. He’ll get into a good school – that’s the easy part. Paying for it will be the challenge,” he said knowingly, an amusing angle playing at his prematurely gray eyebrow.

                Yixing half-listened as his eyes took in the neighborhood around them, wary.

                “I’m up here, on the right. You really are kind to help an old man like this. Sometimes I forget just how old!” Yixing’s heart seized as the man led him toward the plain little house, the house he’d seen twice before. “If you don’t mind, could you bring those around back? That’s where all my tools are.”

                Yixing couldn’t swallow. His throat had shuttered closed as the man had turned to walk up the front path of his house. No. _Jongdae’s house_.

_What the fuck?_

                Yixing checked himself, catching up the few steps he’d fallen behind.

                “No problem, sir,” he croaked out, his voice foreign and forced in his ears.

                “Oh please, call me by my name. I’m Daeji.” He bowed his head, that same charming smile brightening his expression as he walked around the corner of his house, allowing Yixing to unload the chairs on a small concrete slab by the back door. Yixing straightened up, willing his expression to remain stable, if not entirely pleasant.

                “You’re a lifesaver, son. I’d like to thank you properly, if I could. What’s your name?”

_What the fuck… what is this. Shit._

                “Erm… Baek… yeol.” He stammered a bit, recovering with a smile and a respectful, low bow.

                “Well, Baekyeol, I appreciate your generosity. I’d ask you if you could come by tomorrow and help me take these chairs back, but I’m sure I couldn’t afford it!” He laughed openly, his straight teeth displayed behind curved, kind lips.

                Yixing’s brain worked frantically, piecing together the last ten minutes with the last two months. It felt like a bomb had gone off inside him, the smoke and sound of it making him feel sick. Everything in him was rearranging – every conversation, every detail – into something sinister… and devastating.

                But he had to know for sure. Anything to prove this whole thing wrong.

                He smoothed his sleeves out, conjuring up his best, most engaging smile.

                “Perhaps your son could help you?” _Say it._ “What did you say his name was?”

                “Jongdae. But I’m sure he’ll be out studying at the library or spending time with his friends. I’d hate to burden him… but these chairs do have a mind of their own, don’t they!”

                Yixing’s stomach lurched. He forced himself to remain calm, bidding Kim Daeji farewell and good luck before turning away and walking briskly back the way he’d come.


	14. Chapter 14

        Whenever Yixing felt lost, hurt, or deceived, he fell on routine to steady himself.

        Like the time Chanyeol had lied to him about kissing the girl Yixing had been pining for in their sophomore year of high school; the twofold betrayal burned Yixing, but rather than lash out, he sought control, stability. He committed more fully to his studies, earning the best score in the class on that week’s exam, and fulfilling his responsibilities with precision and efficiency. After six days of this insular, focused response, he found his anger had diffused enough that he could answer Chanyeol’s calls without burden, forgiving him fully.

        There was something comforting, reassuring about applying himself to his work, to finding rhythm in his life when chaos wanted to rip it apart. He could calibrate any dizziness or despair back to normal, as long as he had a foundation, those predictable patterns that sheltered him from the lightning-strike randomness of pain.

        There had only been one time when this strategy had failed him.

        He had been nineteen at the time, off at school, eyeball-deep in literature and communications courses. He’d opted to stay at school during his pre-exam break while many students went home to recharge before the final push, intent on taking advantage of the quiet campus. Even Chanyeol had gone, leaving him to spend his days editing papers, his nights going to sleep early, often with a set of notes lying on his chest. Two days before his first exam though, as his fellow students had started seeping back toward campus, Yixing’s life tilted irreversibly. His grandfather called him early in the morning, the sun casting an orange glow through the blinds of Yixing’s only window, waking him from a particularly haunting dream filled with red pen marks and lost document files. Yixing still remembers not fully understanding his grandfather’s warbled, shaky words, the news of his father’s unexpected death the night before not even registering in his sleepy, anxious mind. He’d gotten off the phone quickly and set about his day as he always did, showering and making coffee for himself. He was unsure how to absorb the information, shock draining him as soon as the words filtered through the phone line. So he fell into his patterns. He studied, he finished his essays, and he sat his first two exams no problem. His third exam, Chinese Literature, was scheduled later in the afternoon. He had been single-minded in his preparation for this particularly challenging exam, his mind organized and structured to recall every minute detail gleaned in the last four months. He was ready.

        With crisp white papers laid out before him, Yixing had ripped through the questions easily, almost robotically, his wrist sure and decisive as he marked his answers. About halfway through, he read a question concerning Li Bai and his famous poem _Thoughts on a Still Night._ Yixing knew the poem well. The words flooded out from his memory, not from notes or a textbook, but from his childhood. Immediately upon reading the question, it appeared behind his eyes, the small frame just to the right of his father’s desk, hanging on the wall in clean, elegant calligraphy. He’d heard the hushed rhythms spoken slowly in his ear a thousand times growing up; he’d read them himself just as many. His father’s favorite poem, always near to him, Li Bai’s few simple lines were as integral to Yixing’s father as his own name.

_Before my bed, the moon is shining bright,_

_I think that it is frost upon the ground._

_I raise my head and look at the bright moon,_

_I lower my head and think of home._

        The black characters on rich cream-colored paper formed in Yixing’s head, boring into him. He could hear his father’s voice, low and resonant, see his kind eyes close as he recited each word lovingly, reverently from his desk chair, five-year-old Yixing perched on his lap, watching his father’s mouth as he spoke.

        The memory slammed into him, and with it, the torrent of anguish and loss he had refused to allow since he’d heard the news. His father, so lively and generous, with his starchy shirts and meticulously trimmed nails, his rumbling, bear-like laugh and pristine penmanship, was gone, struck from his life without warning, without remorse.

        He hadn’t realized what was happening until he was doubled over, clutching at his knees, lungs iced over as he gasped for air just outside the front door of the building, his exam half-finished on his abandoned desk inside. The frigid winter air cut at his throat as he struggled to regain control, yet he was sweating uncontrollably. His vision was dull and untrustworthy as wave after wave of grief strangled him away from reality.

        Yixing would never recall the hours following his breakdown. He knew he didn’t finish his exam; luckily he’d done enough over the semester to finish with a low B. He knew that, somehow, Chanyeol found him, deciphered his disconnected, mangled words, and drove him the three hours to his grandfather’s house where the rest of his family had convened. He knew he attended the funeral. He knew he stood in front of his family in a borrowed black suit and recited that poem, those few familiar lines, as per his father’s request. He knew he hadn’t cried; his sister told him later, when they huddled close together on the curb outside, groping for some shared quiet amidst the domesticated, emotional chaos inside the house. He knew, but he didn’t remember.

        Then, it had felt like stairs had disappeared beneath his feet. No amount of practice or distraction or routine or will could ground him. But now, almost ten years had passed since it had happened; Yixing had spent every day trying to quantify the experience of losing his father. But really, he could mourn alright. He could manage the pain. Recovery wasn’t the problem, wasn’t what haunted him.

        It was that free fall.

        The panic.

        The moment between the gunshot and the wound. Between the lighting of the match and the explosion.

        That instant, that shock, hurt far worse than the decade-long impact.

        He felt it again now, standing outside his car in the middle of the quiet street, that tensing of muscles, preparing to take the bullet. _What do I do now? What am I supposed to do?_

_What is going on?_

\--- --- ---

        “Yixing? Where are you? School was torture and I can’t decide if I need a nap, food, or your hard co – ”

        Jongdae stopped short, mid-traipse across the kitchen floor, as he peered through Yixing’s open bedroom door. He approached cautiously, hands clasped in front of his stomach.

        “Yixing?”

        “Hey, baby.”

        Yixing lay reclining against his headboard, looking up from a heavy, intimidatingly thick manuscript, red pen poised aloft as he spoke.

        “How was your day?”

        Jongdae paused at the door, taking in all of Yixing.

        Normally, when Yixing was working, he sat at his kitchen table, or in one of his leather chairs if he was feeling particularly relaxed. Jongdae had tried a few times to get Yixing to do his work in bed so Jongdae could snuggle up comfortably next to him, but the elder insisted that he could never get any work done lying down like that. But here he was, bound stacks of paper, various writing utensils, and post-it-covered folders vaguely organized around his legs which extended out across freshly laundered sheets, from the looks of them. He had loose sweats on, the light gray pair with the missing drawstring, and a zip-up maroon hoodie. Jongdae’s eyes lingered around the zipper, which has been abandoned just above Yixing’s navel, leaving his chest exposed and enticing, framed by soft folds of fabric.

        “Oh… it was okay.” Jongdae’s eyes snuck up Yixing’s body, settling on his calm, warm expression, all pink lips and kind eyes.

        “Was it? I thought it was torture?” Yixing asked, his voice passive, curious.

        Jongdae flinched internally.

        “Well, yeah, I mean, it was a hassle to not have my stuff, and I forgot we had a quiz… it wasn’t that bad, I just…”

        “Wanted my sympathy, hm? Made it sound worse so I’d make you feel better?” Yixing cocked an eyebrow, holding Jongdae’s eyes with his for a few seconds, then smiled. “That’s what I’m here for, baby. You don’t have to lie to me. Come here.” Yixing shifted his pile of work over to the other side of the bed and patted his lap, both hands flat on his thighs.

        Jongdae grinned back, relieved, and skipped over, hopping on top of Yixing, straddling him at his hips.

        “Hi, daddy.” Jongdae played his part as usual, all fluttering eyelashes and nibbled lips, his fingers playing at the long white drawstring draping from Yixing’s hood.

        “Hi.” Yixing smiled up at Jongdae, his hands settling easily on narrow hips.

        “How was your day? You have much more work to do?” Jongdae asked, his voice pitched up toward some juvenile fantasy, eying the hefty manuscript denting the pillow beside them.

        “Mm…” Yixing considered, running his hands up and down Jongdae’s sides, rumpling his clothes, drawing Jongdae’s attention back to him. “My day was… enlightening.” He sighed, fingers tickling up Jongdae’s lower back through his shirt. “Made a lot of progress I think. I have more work to do, but a lot of things became clear.”

        Jongdae’s childish act faltered a bit, deciphering, but Yixing squeezed his fingers unexpectedly, a funny shock startling Jongdae into a giggle.

        “Daddy! Stop!” he yelped, wriggling around trying to escape Yixing’s well-aimed little jabs around his ribs.

        Yixing twisted his lips into a teasing sneer.

        “Why? You like how I control you,” he proposed, his thumbs finding another sensitive spot to dig in, drawing more breathy laughs from Jongdae. “You like that I know just how to touch you. I know all about you, don’t I, Jongdae?”

        Suddenly, Yixing’s excruciating tickling stopped completely, leaving Jongdae gasping for air and reeling, thighs clenched tight around Yixing’s hips. A beat of rest, then Yixing’s hands were on him again, efficiently tucking under Jongdae’s shirt, sweeping up his chest, his thumbs finding both Jongdae’s small, pert nipples, brushing over them once, a warning.

        Jongdae sucked air loudly through his teeth, jarred by the jolting touch, trying to read Yixing’s cool expression. But Yixing’s face was calm, his bare chest rising and falling far more predictably than the erratic rhythm Jongdae’s had taken on.

        “I know you, Jongdae,” Yixing practically cooed out, his thumbs pressing small, tantalizing circles into Jongdae’s toughening skin, earning him a shudder. “Don’t I?” His pointer fingers met his thumbs, kneading Jongdae’s nipples harshly once, twice. Jongdae half-winced, half-whined and his back torqued as his hips involuntarily swiveling down against Yixing’s.

        Yixing pinched again, harder, dual spikes of pain shooting under Jongdae’s flesh, then let go, running his nails down Jongdae’s tensed stomach, landing on the waist of his jeans.

        “Ah – ah! Y _-Yes_?!” Jongdae squeaked out, voice still high-pitched and clingy, his hips rutting down at an even pace against Yixing, again and again.

        “Mhm.” Yixing’s fingers worked quickly. He already had the mouth of Jongdae’ jeans flayed open, a triangle of his blue briefs exposed, domed with his growing erection. _That’s my boy._ “You don’t even have to ask, do you? I know what you want. _I know_ what you need.”

        “Yixing – daddy, yes. Touch me, please,” Jongdae whined as he reached for Yixing’s wrists, but Yixing shrugged him off.

        “Oh, it’s not just touch though, is it?” Yixing looked up into Jongdae’s peaked, flushed face, shifting the denim down his hips a little more, then dragged his hands up to the indent just under Jongdae’s ribs, trying to ignore his own instinctual urge to match Jongdae’s sinfully skilled hips. “No, you’ve made it pretty clear that you need a lot more than that, Jongdae.”

        Jongdae didn’t have a chance to respond. Yixing had him falling sideways on top of pens and papers, twisted and _handled_ , anchored by Yixing’s well-placed hands. Jongdae yelped once, finding himself inverted on the bed, pinned under Yixing’s intense, taut form, his half-hard cock jumping, its mass pulling at the stretchy material of his underwear.

        “Because anyone can touch you.” Yixing smirked a little as he said it, his full lips drawing Jongdae in with every word.

        Jongdae’s eyes were watering a little; he couldn’t blink for fear of missing something. He saw some flinty grit in the man poised above him, some hard edge that might mean ( _oh god please_ )he’d be sore tomorrow, but Jongdae still relished Yixing’s knees pressing up against his inner thighs, familiar warmth sneaking away from his toes and fingers for a more central location. “Anyone can make you feel good…”

        Yixing brought his hands up, planting them in the mattress on either side of Jongdae’s head. He hated how beautiful Jongdae looked, trapped beneath him. He loathed how his own body reacted without his consent, unruly, _weak_ , in the face of the easy fantasy of him… of Jongdae.

        “What we have is different…” Yixing lulled Jongdae with his voice, an invitation, his own heated rage held back somewhere around his lungs. He watched Jongdae respond exactly how he hoped: grabby fingers, open lips, twitchy hips – everything Yixing ached for.

_Anyone. You’d be happy doing this with anyone. I’m nothing to you._

        Yixing _snarled_ and pressed his right knee up into Jongdae’s groin, harsh and abrupt, his voice losing its cool in Jongdae’s burning ears. The younger started, a flash of alarm blinking in and out, replaced by more breathy eagerness. Yixing hated that, too – that he was powerless for this kid. He’d let all this happen. He felt cored, like an apple, drained and broken and still so willing to strip himself down, to waste away holding onto the best lie he’d ever believed.

_This must be what addiction feels like._

        “…right?”

        Jongdae was too busy staving off his arousal, fueled by Yixing’s blunt knee pressing into his balls, to notice the manic shifts going on behind Yixing’s eyes, but he was game to sink into whatever brand of submission Yixing had in mind.

        “Oh god, yes. Yes, daddy. Y-you’re all I’ve ever wanted. You’re perfect for me – ah!” Jongdae whined out his answer in sharp, hurried squeaks, his back arching off the bed as he tried to encourage more out of Yixing, a few pens shifting around under him. Yixing’s heart seized at the words.

_Then why would you lie to me?_


	15. Chapter 15

_Then why would you lie to me?_

Yixing blinked, the question held captive on his tongue, the question that had clanged around inside him all day, cutting him up and bleeding him dry since he realized Jongdae was a liar. It ached, acidic and hot and lurching inside him, but… _no._ _Not this way. Not right now. Steady._

“You need someone willing to dig into you…” Jongdae hissed as Yixing leaned into Jongdae’s crotch a little harder with his knee. “…Someone who loves you…” Yixing steadily added pressure, rolling his knee up a bit to press into the base of Jongdae’s erection, enjoying the wince escaping those beautiful, crafty lips, “enough…” just a little more, just enough to really test that line between excruciating pain and ecstasy, “ _to break you_.”

“Ah! _Ah_!! _Yixing_!” Jongdae reached up and grabbed at Yixing’s waist for leverage, grabbing twin fists full of soft fleece, then angled his hips up against him, forcing even _more_ crushing compression between them, too much, such pain that his vision swam and his throat constricted.

_Never enough. Even now, I’m never enough for you._

Yixing watched, breathless, as Jongdae stole the reigns from him, using Yixing for his violent pleasure, rocking once against him, another stunning wave of whitish glow clouding his vision. He cried out, something strained and satisfied yet still yearning for more, throwing his head back as he fell away, pulsing beneath Yixing. Yixing groaned as he shifted his knee back, inadequate and dependent and so, _so_ turned on.

They gasped together, Jongdae drawing his knees up to hug Yixing’s hips above him, feet dangling behind them. The touch was intimate, tender in the relief of released tension, and Yixing felt himself equally drawn in and repulsed.

_I’m not yours._

He forced himself to suppress his desire to sink into Jongdae, all his wild youth and wicked desire, ignoring his need to lap up every drop of affection this terrible boy doled out, every whimper of manufactured devotion.

_I was never yours._

Yixing raised himself up, reaching back to take Jongdae’s legs and bend them acutely forward, shucking Jongdae’s pants and briefs, revealing his fierce, swelling hard-on. They hadn’t had sex for several days, and even though he’d steeled himself, swore all day that he would maintain control, Yixing’s body betrayed him, so fucking desperate to touch, to take, to invade Jongdae’s slim hips, his perfect skin, the cuts and curves of him.

“Oh fuck, Yixing… please… please _break me_ …” Jongdae hummed out, his whole body undulating, ready for more.

With Jongdae’s shuddered permission floating in the air, it didn’t matter how infuriated Yixing was. It didn’t matter how much he loathed himself for falling for lie after lie for months, and now, even worse, for discovering those lies and folding so easily anyway. It didn’t matter that he’d given so much, sacrificed his sanity and safety and comfort to freefall into the pitch black of Jongdae, only to realize that there was nothing at the bottom but impact. Suffering. Chaos.

It didn’t matter. Because Yixing couldn’t help himself. Never could. Not with Jongdae.

All day, he toiled in and around himself, meticulously ripping through every moment, seeking some evidence that might save him. But it was inevitable now. He saw the bullet heading toward him, his beautiful blond angel behind the gun. He couldn’t live with the lie… but it was too much to give up the fantasy. Not right now. _Not right now._

With his boy keening beneath him, he gave into his weakness. He let himself believe he was flying, just one more time, before he was forced to face the reality of that impact, that suffering, that bleak, lonely chaos that would rob him of everything he’d staked his life on.

        Yixing lunged forward, suddenly ravenous, and took Jongdae’s head in his right hand, still holding himself up with his left, bringing Jongdae’s deviously curved lips to meet his own plush ones in a crushing kiss. Jongdae moaned out, the tone echoing deliciously in Yixing’s skull as they opened their mouths wide, stealing each other’s oxygen, their tongues almost serrated with insistence.

        They moved together with urgency, Jongdae unzipping Yixing’s hoodie with a single, smooth movement, another honeyed moan curling out of him as he gained access to Yixing’s torso, his slim fingers hungry for warm, tingling skin. They laced their legs together, grinding in tandem, using each other for mutual, stuttering friction, filling the room with their mixed scents of heat and hunger.

        Yixing, unable to resist, got lost in Jongdae. He had been determined to pillage, to thieve one last fix from Jongdae; he’d coached himself, prepared. But with his fingers fisted in Jongdae’s golden hair, his tongue dripping with the sugary taste of him, Jongdae’s learned, loving touch around Yixing’s waist, along his jutting hipbones, sneaking under the waistband of his sweats, Yixing knew it wasn’t just the sex he craved. He regretted their intimacy, built too quickly, almost cheaply; he’d been unwilling to wait for the real thing, he realized now. But this shiny façade felt _so fucking good_ …

        “Daddy…” Jongdae hummed out as Yixing licked over the sloping veins under the pale expanse of Jongdae’s neck, the area he’d been fixated on for several minutes.

“Mm?” Yixing felt drugged, answering with an embarrassingly wrecked whimper.

“Daddy, what’s wrong?” Jongdae severed their contact, settling his head back onto the bed to look up at Yixing, his dark hair sticking up at odd angles, the short strands around his forehead damp with sweat. Jongdae smiled, his eyebrows peaked a bit, forcing his breath to slow despite his hard-on still slowly abusing Yixing’s left thigh.

He reached a hand up, slipping it out from the back of Yixing’s sweats, to touch, so softly, the protruding inner arc of his ear, then over to the tapered, sparse end of his black eyebrow, tracing up around his temple and down, lingering on the handsome indent at the bridge of his nose. Yixing closed his eyes, swallowing hard. _He’s a liar. He doesn’t love you._ But within the forgiving darkness of his mind, Jongdae’s attentive touch filled him up, the pads of his fingers lightly mapping the arc of his cheek, then his masculine jaw, his thumb resting where his dimple revealed itself in happier moments, just off the coast of Yixing’s trembling lips. Yixing couldn’t move, trapped as Jongdae held him with the slightest touch.

“Yixing?” Yixing winced and squinted his eyes closed tighter. “We don’t have to… if you don’t – We don’t have to.” Yixing dropped his chin to his chest, shrinking away minutely, but Jongdae held fast, his thumb arcing up to catch the tear that slipped past Yixing’s lashes.

“Yixing.” Jongdae waited, unmoving and patient, his voice so tender that Yixing couldn’t punish himself too harshly for buying his lies.

        Yixing looked up, eyes sparkling with anger and regret and desperate devotion. Jongdae sighed, lips peaked, eyes sloping in worry.

        “I love you,” he whispered, his fingers resting on the edge of Yixing’s cheekbone. “Please… I…”

        _H_ _ow badly I want to believe you. How badly I need that to be true._

        Yixing drank in the warmth of Jongdae’s eyes, so full and bright despite his taut expression.

        _W_ _hy would you lie to me? If you love me, why would you lie?_

        “I love you, Jongdae.” The truth, hateful and repulsive and wounding, slipped out of Yixing’s lips, hoarse and strained under the weight of Yixing’s struggle. Jongdae exhaled, uncomprehending relief spreading from the corners of his eyes across his face.

        “Are you alright? What is it?”

        “I just…” Yixing gathered the last of his shredded psyche, binding himself together just a little longer, unwilling to lose this moment. “I missed you,” he offered, hoping his voice wouldn’t betray the storm inside him.

        Jongdae smiled and pulled Yixing close, their bodies flush.

        “I missed you, too.”

        It was enough, and Yixing harbored a tiny flame of pride within himself, internalizing his breakdown, shoving it down for a few more hours of fantasy.

        With abandon, Yixing let his body drown out his mind, anchored on the routine of arousal and lust. He worshipped every bit of Jongdae he could reach, taking him on the bed, the floor, the shower. It didn’t have the careening, animalistic quality of the night before, but it was no less intense, their howling voices raking through the apartment, every scratch and pull and bite that much harsher for its finality.

        The sun had started to set, a showy sienna glow cutting in through the bedroom window, washing the walls in its moody glare. Jongdae curled up at the end of Yixing’s bed, naked apart from Yixing’s previously discarded hoodie draped around his slight frame, his damp hair air-drying in soft waves.

        Yixing took a moment over his sink, toothbrush clamped between his lips, to focus. The burn of mint on the tip of his tongue helped, singed away the heady scent of Jongdae from his nose. More than once in the hours since Jongdae had come back from school, when Yixing had Jongdae scrambling up the tiles in his shower for leverage, when he’d had Jongdae convulsing at his tongue slicking up his walls, when they’d come together, Jongdae wrapped so tightly around him that Yixing had felt every pulsing surge of his cock against his tensed stomach, Yixing had tried to convince himself not to follow through with his plan. Whatever Jongdae’s hidden truth was, whatever drove him to lie must be justified. It had to be.

        That shred of hope lingered inside Yixing as he looked in the mirror, peripherally assessing the damage Jongdae had done to his neck, his chest, his hips (a particularly vivid shock of red had accumulated under distinct teeth marks just inside his hip bone). With each passing second, the time bomb ticking away in his head, Yixing wavered on how to proceed.

        “Daddy…” Jongdae called sweetly from his bed, “you can’t fuck me like that for four hours and not have food as a reward. That’s basic courtesy, I think.”

        Yixing swallowed, the foamy sting of toothpaste slipping down his throat. _Fuck._

He spat out the remaining stuff, his resentment and guilt immediately tainting the fresh taste in his mouth to something metallic and ugly.

“I’m going to take you somewhere for dinner right now, okay baby? Just put on whatever you like,” he answered coolly.

They dressed quickly, Yixing in a black thermal, Jongdae in one of Yixing’s few colorful items, a baby blue tee, slim and simple.

“You might get cold in just that…” Yixing stopped himself mid-sentence. _Shut the fuck up Yixing._ Even now, he felt the need to care for Jongdae, keep him safe, if only from the early autumn chill. _You’re sick._ He grit his teeth together, unwilling but sure, leading Jongdae to his car.

They drove out from Yixing’s apartment building, the cool evening air rushing through the opening windows (Jongdae’s request) as they made their way toward the city. Yixing uttered silent thanks that the sky had darkened enough that Jongdae didn’t notice how tightly he gripped his steering wheel.

Jongdae chatted about school, picking up where he’d left off earlier, as Yixing drove. Twice, Yixing turned away from his destination, too anxious to even approach the right street. But Jongdae whined about his debilitating hunger and Yixing obliged, correcting his route.

A turn away, Jongdae peered out the window, creasing his brow a bit.

“Where did you say we were going?”

Yixing’s teeth chattered, his nerves betraying him. The wind covered his loud exhale as he gathered himself for the blow.

“New place. Not too far.”

Jongdae shifted in his seat, though Yixing couldn’t bear to look over. He forced himself to drive carefully as his blood ran icy inside his hands.

Two minutes later, he saw it, the glow from inside pooling on the sidewalk. It looked fairly busy, even from here. He blinked, clearing his muddled vision, and found a parking spot, shifting the car shakily into the space. He dropped his hand to the key, paused for one last second, then turned the car off.

Replacing the rumble of the engine was bustling noise from inside the restaurant, laughing and easy conversation carried through the street. It would have been charming; it had been, when Yixing had visited before. He had admired the homey food, the kind folks who worked there, the faded dark green awning, and the amiable, if thin, greyish dog that spent his days welcoming customers with a mild raise of his head. But now, it was the source of Yixing’s ultimatum, the proof of his brokenness. Yixing felt nauseous, but lifted his head to look to his right.

Jongdae sat perfectly still, his eyes fixed on the front door of his family’s restaurant. His face was pale, blank. Yixing waited.

“H… How…” Jongdae barely moved his lips.

Yixing took a deep, stuttered breath.

“I met your father, Jongdae.” Yixing watched Jongdae hear him, and nod, almost imperceptibly, still staring out across the street. He had gone over a million iterations of how this confrontation might have gone, but nothing prepared him for the unfiltered fear he saw in Jongdae’s eyes. It almost deterred him, almost quashed his determination to understand, to hear the truth. But he had to know. His throat formed the words for the millionth time that day, and finally, his lips followed suit.

“You’ve been lying to me. I want to know…” he felt his voice already quavering with emotion, but he held on. “Tell me the truth. Who beat you? What’s going on?”

Jongdae’s eyelids fluttered but did not close as parallel tears fell fat over his lashes. His lips parted, then met again once, twice, before any sound came out. And then he spoke, so quietly Yixing had to lean over to hear him fully.

“I did it. It was me.” His unblinking gaze shifted slightly, meeting Yixing with shining, wide eyes. "It was only ever me."


	16. Chapter 16

        “ _What?_ ”  

        Jongdae remained mostly still, but Yixing saw the irregular rise and fall of his chest through Yixing’s own thin tee shirt, the subtle shake of his fingers in his lap, the stinging, involuntary stutter of his eyelids, trying simultaneously to both hold back and blink away tears.

_I did it. It was me._

        Yixing tried and failed to swallow, his dry, gummy throat constricting into an awkward cough. Jongdae flinched, loosing another wash of tears down his cheeks.

        “Explain. Please,” Yixing husked out, begging.

        Jongdae shuddered in a breath, the veins in his neck marring his pale skin with their raised tension.

        “I…” He tried to look at Yixing, but his eyes fell, landing somewhere around his armrest. “I m-made up everything about my dad. He never… no one’s ever hurt me. I…” He faltered, his lips uncoordinated and clumsy around words he had hoped to never say. “B-both times. Yesterday and at the bar when we first… I did it to myself. I… I’m s-so sorry I couldn’t tell y-you, I…”

        His voice broke, thin and crackling with pain. Yixing closed his eyes, unwilling to watch his own wounds mirrored in the one who caused them. He dropped his head, covering his face with his hands.

        Cold, crashing minutes passed, Jongdae’s stifled weeping mixing jarringly with the warm ambience through the window. Yixing’s spine ached, every nerve in him gasping for air. _Get out of this car. Run. Run._

        “Why?” The muffled syllable barely escaped Yixing’s confining hands pressed against his mouth. But Jongdae heard, and began.

        “I hurt myself sometimes… because… I’m a masochist. I… I didn’t understand it when I was younger, but I… I need to feel pain. I have to. I can’t help it. And for a long time, I did it alone, and I had to hide it, but it wasn’t really… it wasn’t right. It didn’t work after a while and I felt like… it felt _like I would die, Yixing, I swear_.”

        Jongdae’s voice gave out under another wave of sobs, every wracked breath grating on Yixing like burns. His body, his mind violently split, half determined to escape this hell, to fucking run and hide and forget, _just forget_ … but half desperate to reach out. To reach for Jongdae, to hold onto him, protect him, keep him close.

        Jongdae’s whimpering halted, feeling soft, tentative fingers on his own. He looked over through wet lashes, and while Yixing couldn’t bear to return his gaze, it was enough, their hands a link between them.

        “It’s not just, like… a sexual thing. And it’s not a self-abuse thing either. It… it took me a long time to figure out but I just… I need someone who can push me to the edge and… bring me back. I dreamed about that person, I’ve… and I met you and I thought maybe…”

        “How…? Why me?” Yixing cut in, his voice odd in his own ears.

        “I don’t know what it was,” Jongdae answered slowly, though his words came out as if he’d asked himself the same question. “I wasn’t even planning on doing it. I went to the bar because sometimes that helps… and I… I saw you. I watched you. You came in and you and Chanyeol were talking and I honestly don’t know why but I just… I knew you were different. You looked like you were playing a part, sitting there drinking alone, like that’s what you thought you were supposed to be doing. Something about the way you looked around at everyone, like you thought they weren’t real… or you weren’t. I don’t know…”

        Jongdae’s voice petered out as he retreated in his own head. But Yixing nudged his thumb against the last knuckle on Jongdae’s hand, just enough.

        “And when I walked up to you, it’s like… I saw this… _fire_ in your eyes. I can’t explain it, but I… I felt like you saw me. Like some part of you saw _me_ and it felt like I could breathe again… I couldn’t let you go without, I don’t know… seeing if I was right…”

        That night flashed in Yixing’s mind, the whiskey, the noise, and that golden hair, those lips, that walk…. The blood…

        “So no one attacked you in the bathroom? What the fuck did you do? How…” A thousand permutations of the same question threatened to burst out of him like shrapnel, but he smashed his lips together, waiting. Jongdae’s voice came out weaker again, and Yixing realized he’d ripped his hand away, pressing the pads of his fingers to his temples.

        “I don’t know… I just, I watched you, and I thought maybe you might try to look for me? I just… I liked you the second I saw you and I didn’t know what to do because you’re older and I didn’t think you would take me seriously… but I knew, I just knew if I could somehow get more time with you…”

        “Why didn’t you just talk to me? I looked for you… I…”

        “I don’t know!” Jongdae cried as he brought his hands to his face, echoing Yixing’s own frustration. “I don’t know… If I had, maybe I wouldn’t have lied to you, maybe we wouldn’t be doing this now… but maybe…” He dropped his hands to his lap again, lifting his head just a little. Yixing felt his eyes, heavy and pleading, but still refused to return the look. “I know it was wrong. I knew it was when I did it. But something about you told me I had to. I couldn’t let the chance go, and I thought if I gave you the opportunity, you might… you might…” His voice was a whisper, a shameful red flush creeping down from his cheeks to his neck.

        “I might what?” Yixing pushed. Jongdae closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

        “If I gave you the chance, if I made myself vulnerable, maybe you might… save me… and you _did_. I was right, even just watching you at the bar I knew. I saw it in you; you’re different. And when you took me home, you held me so close and you were safe and, I felt… I felt like… like I had a future. Like I could finally hope for something.”

        Jongdae’s voice grew a little stronger as he spoke, his timid begging bolstered by his memories of their first meeting. He risked turning toward Yixing a little more, tucking his knee under him, leaning forward just a bit.

        “And when I called you daddy…”

        Yixing felt like he’d been shoved out a window. Every detail of the memory shot forward in his mind, blew past him like hot wind, as vivid and wild as it was the first time, Jongdae’s sugary sweet voice against his neck, his bare legs held against him…

        “I knew it was too soon, but I had to… I was already so crazy about you and I knew if I could just…”

        “I called you little one first,” Yixing growled out low, interrupting Jongdae. He ground his teeth together, remembering every nuance, every smell, every terrible, addicting touch. “You were right. I don’t know how you did it, but you saw this… this _thing_ in me _that quickly_ and all you had to do was bleed a little, and I couldn’t fucking help myself.”

        A familiar twist of self-loathing coiled inside Yixing. _It takes two people to deceive. One person to lie, and the other to buy it._ The urge to run seized him again, hot and terrified. Instead, he tore his hands away from his face, contracting into fists as he smashed them into the steering wheel, once, twice, the thunking of rubber and metal punctuating his own guttural groan.

        Jongdae cried out, frightened, and retreated back into the door behind him, hands clamped over his mouth.

        Silence fell between them again, Yixing focusing his vague, hazy vision.

        _D_ _on’t stop now._

        He angled his face to the side, seeing Jongdae’s legs all bent beneath him, his posture small, childish.

        “I need understand this,” Yixing started in, slowly, evenly. “So… _please_. Answer me.” Jongdae remained still, listening. “Don’t lie. No more lies.” And with the dregs of courage still hanging on his heart, Yixing looked up, seeking Jongdae’s eyes, too full, too bright and beautiful. They stared back, blessedly dry, open and earnest for whatever Yixing asked.

        “How old are you?”

        “Seventeen. Eighteen in… four days.”

        “Has anyone ever hit you?”

        “No. Well, I got punched in the eye when I was thirteen by some kid at school, but… no. Not since then.”

        Yixing couldn’t tamp down the tiny, ridiculous flutter he felt hearing Jongdae’s answers – he sounded so young, so endearing, in his honesty. It reminded him of their sleepy mornings together, when Jongdae didn’t have much of a filter, stretching and purring under white sheets. He shook his head to refocus, his next question hooking its barbs into his tongue already.

        “Your family – do they have any idea what you’ve been doing? With me?”

        “No. They’re so busy, and they trust me. They spend more time here than at home,” Jongdae’s eyes flicked out the window toward the restaurant. “That part was true,” his eyes travelling back to Yixing’s, a little cowed.

        “You let me think they were… just… _awful_ people. Like you’d been neglected. Abused. You told me over and over.”

        “I’m sorry,” Jongdae blurted out earnestly, but Yixing narrowed his eyes.

        “You’re going to apologize to them. I was going to call the police, you know that? I went to see him, Jongdae. Today. If it hadn’t gone the way it did… who knows what might have happened.”

        Possibilities, worse the more there were, sprang up in Jongdae’s mind. Yixing watched his face as the scope of his selfishness became clearer.

        “I know, I-I’m so sorry – ”

        “They didn’t deserve that. I may not be blameless in this, but they are.” Yixing pointed out the window behind him. Jongdae followed with his eyes. “You… you made villains out of your family.”

        Jongdae nodded, tucking his bottom lip between his teeth, a habit of his to keep from crying. It never worked. More tears spilled out from Jongdae’s eyes as he watched the couples and families enjoying their meals, the dusky darkness of evening warmed by the yellowish glow from inside.

        “Okay.” Yixing brought Jongdae back from his tormented detachment, locking eyes with him again. Jongdae sniffed, collecting himself, and lowered his chin, a small, submissive gesture.

        “So… you’re… a masochist.” The word felt foreign on Yixing’s tongue, but since he’d heard it from Jongdae’s mouth a few minutes before, it had been taking root in him, snaking around his memories of Jongdae whining out at Yixing’s more brutal ministrations, demands for _harder, faster_ ringing out with new meaning. He knew Jongdae was… kinky. But having this label on it, having the weight of that word between them… he felt out of his league. “What does that mean?”

        Jongdae blinked a few times, hiding his surprise. He looked down at his hands, picking at his nails as he spoke.

        “Well, for me, it means… it means I’m not satisfied by the same things most people are. I figured out pretty early that I was daydreaming about very different things from my friends. While they were obsessed with kissing girls, I was fixated on someone holding me down, someone strong. I know that sounds terrible, but… it was never scary. The person, the man in my head was always safe, someone I trusted. He was my protector. He gave me comfort as often as he gave me pain. But the pain was part of it. So much pain. In my dreams, in my fantasies. And the more I thought about it, the stronger the feeling got. It was like… I’d think about it, imagine him covering my mouth with his hand, staring into my eyes, watching me as he sort of… held me over the edge. The idea of giving someone else that power over me, trusting them to break me and put me back together… it’s all I’ve ever wanted. Ever. I swear, Yixing, I didn’t orgasm for the first time until I pictured a man choking me. I honestly didn’t think I even could until then.” Jongdae shook his head a little, still averting Yixing’s intense attention. “I’ll never forget it. I was fifteen. I remember because it felt better, more… _right_ , than anything I’d ever felt before. And at the same time, I knew I’d never had a normal relationship. I’d never be able to date. I didn’t know if there were other people like me… But the worst was thinking there was no one like the man I’d made up in my head, no one able to love me like he did.”

        Jongdae let his words hang in the air, heavy and honest and deeply painful as they settled inside Yixing. They sat like that, distant from each other yet joined by Jongdae’s vulnerability, before Yixing sighed.

        “Why… why did you keep all this from me…” Jongdae looked up, startled; Yixing’s voice was thick, broken. He muscled out the words, but only just, before covering his mouth with his hand, a few tears collecting between his cheek and his index finger.

        “I… didn’t… I didn’t know how to…”

        But Yixing flung his hand away from his face, tears sliding unimpeded down around his sharp chin.

        “You didn’t trust me. All this time.” He forced his voice out, ripping past his pity, his attachment. Because he was already dead; Jongdae had already fired the gun. But for now, he was still standing, still breathing. “You never trusted me. And that’s _all_ I ever asked of you, Jongdae!” Yixing spat out the name like poison. But instead of a bowed, submissive boy, he was met with a prickly, indignant expression, Jongdae’s lower jaw jutting just a little, his nostrils flaring.

        “Was it that easy?” His voice was lower than before, measured, but with each word he became more agitated, his fingers digging into his legs, his ears tipped bright, angry red. “I couldn’t tell you! How would you have me break that to you, huh? Oh, hi, my name’s Jongdae and I’m hoping you have it in you to take me home and fuck me ‘til I pass out. Or, if you want, you can just fuck my mouth so hard I can’t speak the next day?”

        “ _Fuck that,_ Jongdae, don’t act like there wasn’t a way to – ”

        “No! Look, I’m sorry I lied. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. Honestly, if I could have done this differently, I’d have told you sooner. I hate that you found out like this, but J _esus, Yixing,_ I’ve never told _anyone!_ I’m sorry I didn’t immediately trust you with my most painful secret. I’m sorry I wasn’t falling over myself to tell you I’m a seventeen-year-old masochist, but if we’re all being _honest_ here, how about you tell me how you would have responded to that the first night we met?”

        Yixing bit his tongue, his skin hot. Sensing his opening, Jongdae pushed on.

        “I’m not lying anymore. I promise you, when I saw you that night, I saw the man I had imagined in my head all this time. I just _knew._ And I couldn’t risk scaring you away. I knew you had it in you, but I had to… I don’t know, ease you into it I guess. I knew I wouldn’t be a conquest for you, or your one foray into kink before you thought better of it. I had to see if you could go deeper than that, if you would let me show you my world. And don’t fucking tell me you wouldn’t have minded, because I remember the terror in your eyes when I called you daddy that morning, that fucking horrified look you gave me right after you almost came in your pants.” Jongdae’s eyes were like twin flames, dangerous and wavering with tears and bitterness. He bared his teeth, challenging Yixing. “I’m sorry I lied. I’m sorry I couldn’t trust you. But you know you wouldn’t have done any of it, wouldn’t have even considering it, if I had just told you I was a masochist.”

        Yixing didn’t know what he’d been hoping for; he couldn’t say what might have been a better, more acceptable answer. But the hollow clamor in him now, devoid of the self-righteous heat he’d nursed all day, didn’t leave any room for doubt.

        “You’re right.” Yixing wiped the filmy remnants of tears from his lashes. “You’re right; I would never have called you had I known.”

        Jongdae let out a clipped, huffed exhale, both appeased and wounded by Yixing’s response.

        “But… okay, so… now you do know. And I don’t have to lie anymore. I’m eighteen in four days, then we can be together, without anything holding us back. I’ll do whatever I need to do to make this up to you. I do trust you, I trust you, Yixing, please, just…”

        Yixing looked up, studying Jongdae’s blotchy face. Night had cast them in darkness inside the car, Jongdae’s angular features made sharper with the odd washes of fluorescent light from nearby streetlamps. His brows were scrunched together, his breathing a little quick.

_So handsome, even now. My little one._

        Yixing shook his head slowly, pursing his lips before he spoke again.

        “No. No, this… I can’t do this.”

        Jongdae sat back a little, blinking as if he’d been slapped.

        “Wh-what? Yixing…” Yixing looked away from Jongdae, still shaking his head, as if the motion would help him stay vigilant, would keep him from crumbling under Jongdae’s pleading… “No, Yixing, I said I’m sorry, and you know there was no other way for this to go, you have to believe me I was trying to tell you. I… we shared so much together and I… I love you! And you love me! I know this hasn’t been easy, but I was made to love _you_.” Yixing closed his eyes, willing some force inside himself to block out the words, increasingly high-pitched and strained. “I’ll do anything. You know I will. And you… please don’t do this, Yixing… _daddy, please!”_

        Yixing opened his door and escaped out into the street, his breathing labored. He stood, but the staccato sounds of Jongdae’s sobs filtered through the open window, clawing up his spine like lightning. He raked through his hair harshly, yanking on his scalp, then walked around to the passenger door. He pulled on the handle, Jongdae almost falling out onto the curb with his fevered cries. Yixing stood unmoving, holding the door open. Finally, Jongdae exited the car, but stood in the way of the open door, staring up at Yixing.

        “Don’t do this, daddy, please. We aren’t going to find this with anyone else. You’ll never find someone who’ll understand you like I do. I know you. I know the deepest parts of you. And I fucking _adore you, daddy._ I want to break for you, I will bleed for you. I swear, I’ve been dreaming about you my whole life – I can’t lose you. Please don’t run away from me, not now. Please. _Please.”_

        A breeze, a little salty from the distant beach, wafted between them. Yixing watched Jongdae’s hair fly up then settle back around his face, soft gold and silver in the night air. He gave himself permission to take a moment, maybe two, to appreciate Jongdae’s little details, those perfect cheekbones and the daring, charismatic lips, his long neck and his slim hips. Just another moment…

        “I do love you. But you lied to me, about the most basic part of you. You manipulated me into being who you needed me to be, without giving me any choice. You forced me into hating people I don’t even know. I… I do love you. But I don’t want this. I don’t want to live this way. It’s too much, Jongdae. You’re asking too much of me, and I don’t want it.”

        “Oh.” Jongdae’s eyes skittered around, unable to settle anywhere. He backed up a step clumsily, his hip bumping the side of the car. He over-corrected, stepping up awkwardly onto the sidewalk. “Okay.”

        Yixing fought his immediate impulse to go to Jongdae, to comfort him, to steady his quaking frame, occupying himself with closing the passenger door.

_You’ve said everything you needed to say. Don’t linger. Go. Go._

        “Go inside, Jongdae. Go home.”

        “Yeah, okay.”

        Yixing hated how stunted and drained Jongdae looked standing in the cold, curving in on himself, his shoulders collapsed together – but there was nothing to be done. He started around the front of the car, pausing at the driver’s side door to look over the roof at Jongdae, still unmoving on the sidewalk. He marveled at his own inconsistency – all he’d wanted to do the last hour was run, as far and fast as he could, but now that he could go, leaving Jongdae behind for the last time, everything in him yearned to stay.

_Don’t linger. Go._

        “Goodbye,” _my love_ , _my…_ “little one.”

        Yixing ducked into the car before he could see Jongdae’s reaction. He turned the key, jammed into drive, and fled, tears threatening his vision again. He should have been grateful, for if he had been able to see well, a glance in his rearview mirror would have shown Jongdae crumple on the sidewalk, curled into a ball on the cold concrete.


	17. Chapter 17

        Yixing drove home alone, mired in the sinking tunnel of evening. Unlike the heavy weight of separation he experienced before, every thought that rose up in Yixing slipped away, oily and weightless, leaving behind only a thin layer of indistinguishable, gray muck inside him. Cloudy, hazy images and memories flashed in his mind, like lightning through the rain-slick window panes of a dark house, briefly horrifying, but gone in an instant. He showered, and felt filthier for it. Sleep, thankfully, was easy enough. He was intensely exhausted and passed out, dead to the world right through ‘til morning, though he woke up wracked with pinching, sharp cramps in his joints. Sleeping on the couch always did that to him.

        He spent his next three days immersed in work. He’d neglected both authors and clients, let tasks pile up in recent weeks, but returning to the sizable mountain of work at his office felt like a gift rather than a burden. He arrived early and stayed late, ate his lunch hunched over his office PC, filled his calendar with appointments and meetings, taking on as much work as the following weeks allowed, and then heaped on some more. If his mind was overwhelmed, kept busy with polishing and proofing draft after draft, redeeming himself in his boss’s eyes by shouldering every mundane, tedious task, maybe he could go five minutes without visualizing the drive from his office to Jongdae’s house. Maybe he could choke out the tiny, wheedling pockets of fury, anxiety, and loathing, jam his brain so full of urgent responsibility that he’d have a moment of peace from the slow suffering of regret.

        _No. Not regret._

But September 21st, a day Yixing had envisioned as a bright, intimate celebration, a breakthrough he and Jongdae would have shared wrapped up in each other, came too soon and no amount of edits or emails could occupy his wild mind. Everything, all morning into the afternoon, despite his earnest efforts to exhaust himself, an endless assault of sneaking details ensnared him, demanded his attention, reminding him of Jongdae: the scent of his shampoo that felt wrong in his nose without rich golden hair laced with it, then the hard edge of the top shelf of his kitchen cabinet as he reached for a coffee mug, and the worst, the blood red roses creeping up the neck of the woman taking his order for lunch. Those blooms, inked into her pale skin with vivid, gorgeous violence, hypnotized Yixing where he stood. She shimmered out of focus, her body shifting in Yixing’s blurred vision to realign as he had seen his little one sprawled across his white sheets, all of him emblazoned with art, and those thorny roses climbing up his throat, dark crimson and craving careful, heavy hands to suffocate them.

        Yixing fled before she could hand him his order, nauseated and shattered and drowning.

        Out on the sidewalk, breath all clumped and quavering in his lungs, vision still hazy with Jongdae’s naked, tattooed body, he fished his phone out of his pocket and thumbed the screen. However desperate he’d been to muscle through the pain, to endure alone, he knew he couldn’t survive like this.

        A tone, another, then his voice, tinny and ringing in his ear.

        “Yixing? Is that really you?”

\--- --- ---

        Chanyeol knew to wait until Yixing was four beers deep to ask what was wrong.

        This was more for his own benefit than Yixing’s; he’d learned early in their friendship that Yixing was a world class qualifier. Any difficult conversations inevitably began with a solid half hour of hemming and hedging before Chanyeol could get any solid information out of him, so if he was impatient for the real story, he had to regale him with distracting anecdotes while strategically pumping him full of alcohol – enough to get him buzzed and brave, but not so much he couldn’t control his tongue.

        Chanyeol prided himself on knowing this balance intimately. Yixing would have everyone believe, including himself, that he drank infrequently because he was _the responsible one_ , but Chanyeol knew better. In testing their limits through their early twenties, Chanyeol found Yixing had a glaring lack of self-awareness about his own inebriation. If Chanyeol wasn’t careful about maintaining Yixing’s ideal drunkenness level himself, at a certain point, round about four whiskeys, six beers, or, as was hilariously discovered one Christmas, just one slim glass of champagne, Yixing would abandon his chokehold of self-control completely and attempt to explore the mouth of the nearest cute boy. It had happened rarely, but Chanyeol made sure, every single time, to force a little more alcohol on him to ensure Yixing would remember nothing of his lustful alter ego. It was one of those things Chanyeol did to keep Yixing together, to help him maintain the precise borders and barriers in his life that were, in Chanyeol’s mind, both comfort and crutch.

        So when Yixing called him just after 1:00pm, voice tremulous and measured, Chanyeol immediately began preparing himself.

        They met up at the taproom by Yixing’s place at 9:30. Yixing’s head had been so warped when he’d called, he hadn’t even asked if Baekhyun would be joining them, but as Chanyeol sidled next to him at a booth in the back, Yixing found it odd to see him without his smiley, flirty boyfriend.

        “Where’s Baek?”

        The question gave Chanyeol his opening. Grateful for Yixing’s predictable support, even as he was clearly under some monstrous, unidentified stress himself, Chanyeol talked for almost thirty minutes uninterrupted, the pair of them emptying parallel pint glasses as they settled in. Chanyeol took his time, monitoring Yixing’s consumption as he went, explaining the current “weird patch” he and Baekhyun were in. Yixing sat back and listened dutifully, letting his mind trace the line of Chanyeol’s story while abandoning his own torment, at least for a while.

        “So, he’s been all aloof and shit since then. All because some girl gave me her number. Like I had anything to do with it. Like, somehow, I willed this girl to come over and shove her boobs at me and slip me her number on a fucking bar napkin. Because, as you know, I’m super into boobs.” Chanyeol twisted his features to fully communicate his sarcasm, then relaxed his face and took another sip of beer. “I’m pretty charming, hyung, but I have not mastered the art of mind control. If I had, I’d use it on Baek to break his stubborn ass and chill.”

        Yixing put down his two-thirds empty glass, his fourth of the evening, a little too hard on the table. It thunked loudly, punctuating Chanyeol’s frustrated ranting.

        “That fucking sucks, Yeollie.”

        Chanyeol’s lips quivered as he held back a smirk. Such plebian language from Yixing’s mouth was a good sign he’d achieved optimal tipsiness.

        “So, that’s all my shit. You’re up, hyung. Why’d you call?” Chanyeol downed the last of his beer, prompting Yixing to do the same. “You’ve been so… tied up with Jongdae the last few weeks,” Chanyeol offered, earning an eye roll from Yixing, “I gotta assume this has to do with him?”

        Yixing did finish his beer, grateful for the limits the alcohol imposed on his cramped, tortured thoughts.

        “Astute.” Chanyeol shook his head at Yixing’s slightly slurred speech; hopefully he could coast from here, listen to Yixing’s words fall out his slackening mouth unedited, and not tip the scale toward sloppy, slutty, or blackout.

        “So… what’s going on, hyung?”

        “It’s a pretty involved story.”

        “I have no doubt.” Chanyeol leaned forward, his large hands gesturing out between them, waving Yixing on. “Let me have it.”

        So, Yixing let him have it, every detail he’d tried to lock away, every word he’d tried to erase. All jumbled and hurried and out of order, he told his best friend the truth about Jongdae, the truth about himself.

        Even in his inebriated state, he silently thanked Chanyeol for keeping quiet at the really appalling parts (the punishment, the blood fetish, the self-abuse), nodding along, eyebrows peaked in worry, eyes wide in surprise. Somewhere in the midst of his story, two more foam-topped beers showed up to replace the empty glasses, sides all slippery with condensation. Yixing drank deeply, the stress of delving into the nightmare of the past few days leaving his mouth sticky and dry.

        Eventually, his story staggered toward its finale – the ultimatum outside Jongdae’s family restaurant. Chanyeol’s eyes bloomed impossibly round as Yixing detailed the unexpected run-in with Kim Daeji, then closed tight at the muddled explanation of Jongdae’s revealed lies. Yixing hissed out Jongdae’s forced admission, spitting a little as he tried to whisper the word “masochist.” Chanyeol thought maybe he’d overdone it with the fifth round, but at this point, what did it matter? The truth was out, a potent relief for Yixing’s shredded heart; sharing the story with his best friend, knowing he’d understand, gave him room to breathe again. Chanyeol always understood.

        “So… that’s it? You haven’t talked at all since then?”

        “Notapeep – ” Yixing answered thickly. “And I’ve been working my ass off to try not to think about it, but you know how it is, Yeollie. You always know what it is…” Yixing trailed off, aimless.

        Chanyeol might have laughed, if he didn’t think he best friend was in worse pain that he’d seen him in since he’d found him cowering in the bathroom of their dorm, shaking and ice cold and devastated over the news of his father’s death. He pitied Yixing, competent, controlled Yixing, who had never had much balance when the rug was pulled out from under him.

        “I mean, you said you were done. You caught him. He… he really fucked up, hyung. So what’s going on? Why are you… like this?” Chanyeol pressed on, fighting the delightful fizzy feeling on his tongue, the happy numbness radiating from each of his fingers.

        “Because I fucking love ‘im, right?” Yixing barked out a laugh, gesturing aggressively around, threatening to upset the low hanging bar lights above them. “I mean, I’m in love with a seventeen-year-old masochist!” Another person sitting at their booth might have protested Yixing’s volume, particularly given the subject of his outburst, but Chanyeol nodded sympathetically, sinking further into the warm contentment of intoxication. But Yixing’s eyes cracked wide open as he slammed his palm down onto the table. “Ahhh I misspoke. I’m in love… with an _eighteen_ -year-old masochist.” He closed his eyes and made a satisfied face, leaning back into the leather seat.

        “Wait… no… it’s not today is it? Yixing-hyung…” Chanyeol leaned forward, his hair grazing the bar light, resting his hands on Yixing’s crossed forearms. A whiff of his cologne, the same sporty, masculine scent he’d been wearing since they were freshmen in college, wafted over the table.

        “It is indeed, Yeollie.” Yixing pitched forward too fast, forcing Chanyeol back a little, and reached for his glass. He made a show of raising it, then slamming it back toward his open mouth, only a little trail of foam slipping out onto his shirt as he did so. He looked up, confused, then irritated with his empty glass. He shrugged and turned to Chanyeol again, whose expression was lax and easy watching Yixing’s uncharacteristic theatrics. “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday Jongdaaae, happy birthday to yoooou.” Yixing finished with a half-hearted flourish, then dropped his head, staring down at his hands.

        “That’s why you called me, then.” Chanyeol raked his fingers through his hair once. “Shit, I’m sorry, I – I forgot.”

        Yixing peeked up from his defeated posture, catching Chanyeol watching him with a regretful, pitying expression, his eyes peaked, pink lips tucked between his teeth in realization.

        “Don’t apologize. You’re here now.”

        For some reason, Yixing felt his foot move under the table. He didn’t think he’d asked his foot to do that, but there it went, shifted out and over slightly, lightly pawing at nothing until it bumped into something firm. Chanyeol startled a little, pity draining out of his face, replaced by shock, then a flush of something else. Yixing’s foot, unbeknownst to Yixing’s brain, hooked around Chanyeol’s calf, exploring his absurdly long legs in a calm, up-and-down rhythm.

        “Hyung…”

        “What?” Yixing sighed. “Look, just… just tell me what to do, okay Yeollie? You’re better at this shit than I am.” The words came out too fast, but Chanyeol got the gist as he chalked Yixing’s wandering touch up to booze and a broken heart.

        “Well… clearly our last attempt at getting you over Jongdae didn’t work. Unless, you want me to give Minseok a call aga– ” Yixing shook his head violently, effectively shutting Chanyeol up. He over-corrected and almost flung his head into the wall, causing a rip of dizziness across his eyes. He looked up, smiling stupidly, a similar expression on the three Chanyeols across the table from him. Three Chanyeols, all for him, all so tall and handsome, all so much less complicated than… than…

        “Can we maybe talk a walk or something? I need some, uh… some air?” Yixing voice peaked in odd places, but rather than mock him, Chanyeol smiled that dorky, winning smile Yixing could neither replicate nor understand, and stood, holding his hand out to Yixing, helping him exit the booth with as much grace as they could cobble together.

        Outside, the air was chilly, the late September night biting through Yixing’s sweater. He looked over as he and Chanyeol started up the street. He hadn’t noticed before, but he wasn’t wearing his work clothes, the typical white button-down and ash suit all paralegals wore. He must have changed before coming out; Yixing hadn’t seen this particular sweater before. The crew neck cut just above his collarbones, the sleeves pooling just a little at his wrists. It was dark out, but Yixing guessed it was probably a dark blue, paired nicely with his shiny, chestnut hair. He looked good, pacing slowly up the street, in this nice navy pullover.

        And there he was again, potent and unrelenting in Yixing’s mind, naked and gleaming in his bathroom doorway, swimming in Yixing’s navy pullover, bruises already bleeding up his thighs.

        Yixing stopped awkwardly on the sidewalk to lean forward and clutch his knees, his breath weak.

        “Hyung? You okay? Shit, I shouldn’t have let you drink so much. Fuck.”

        Yixing felt a heavy hand land on his shoulder blade. He looked up to find Chanyeol, all beer-smelling warmth and concern, crouching down next to him, his face just a few inches above his own.

        “No, I… it’s just…” Yixing’s brain was so sleepy, so exhausted and hurt and fucking drunk. The last few months had been the most intense of his life, whipping him around like a ragdoll and who would blame him for wanting to just feel normal, protected, understood for just… just a moment….

        Yixing felt Chanyeol’s lips above his own, soft, slightly parted, and so _warm._ He was always sort of a walking space heater, but it was a curious surprise to feel such comforting heat against his chilled skin. He pressed a little harder, turning his head slightly. _So nice._ His head swam, each second extending out in his mind. In the alcohol-induced stall, his mind blanked, everything blinking out in the warm wave of Chanyeol’s soft lips, totally still and safe. _Oh._

        As his foot had earlier, Yixing’s tongue behaved entirely on its own. He tasted, just a little, the inside of Chanyeol’s upper lip. It was wet, slippery, a mix of beer and some other taste… vaguely salty? Yixing pushed up, leading Chanyeol to stand, his tongue slipping in past Chanyeol’s parted lips into the sweltering heat of his mouth. He found his tongue, lined it’s almost twitching edge, and licked along Chanyeol’s straight teeth. _So hot. Everything’s so hot._

        A small moan, breathy and strained, escaped Yixing’s throat and echoed in Chanyeol’s open mouth just as Yixing reached his hands up to find Chanyeol's neck. His skin, so soft, screamed out for him, and Yixing's couldn't help pressing down just a bit... Chanyeol inhaled sharply, stealing air from Yixing, and took a step back, breaking them apart. Yixing stumbled forward a little, almost face-planting into Chanyeol’s chest, but Chanyeol kept backing up, retreating a few feet away, his own hands on his neck.

        In the absence of Chanyeol’s hot kiss, Yixing felt ice cold, frigid with confusion, practically sick with it. _No… not practically… actually._ Four seconds later, after letting Chanyeol’s upset, disgusted look sear into him fully, Yixing heaved, splashing the sidewalk, and his shoes a bit, regrettably, with the contents of his stomach.

        “Hey! Whoa whoa, you gotta go, man. Not cool.” One of the bar’s staff had come up behind them, Yixing couldn’t tell when. How couldn’t tell much at the moment with his stomach feeling simultaneously like an overexcited helium-filled balloon and a swamp.

        “Shit, I’m sorry, I’ll get him out of here,” Chanyeol’s low voice sat in Yixing’s ears like it always did, caramel sweet and homey. But then Yixing replayed the last two minutes in his head and felt like vomiting again. Chanyeol seemed to sense this and wrapped his laughably long arms around Yixing, holding him up and ushering him down the street, away from the bar.

        Yixing let himself be pulled along, oddly content to go to pieces and let someone else worry about the repairs. From there, he would remember very little – perhaps a cab ride, maybe large hands laying a blanket over him, maybe the glow of a cell phone from across the room just before he fell asleep, Chanyeol’s worried face lit up stark blue in the dark. Unfortunately, he’d remember the kiss quite clearly.


	18. Chapter 18

        A tacky taste somewhere between chalk and expired milk cemented Yixing’s tongue to the roof of his mouth. It was the effort required to peel them apart that actually woke him. He ran his newly freed tongue along the backs of his teeth, feeling a sticky, almost fuzzy film over the entire inside of his mouth, and his stomach lurched.

        He sat up too fast, further disturbing his equilibrium. His head throbbed dangerously to the left, resisting the new position, while his stomach heaved somewhere to the right, as if willing Yixing to run clumsily toward a bathroom. He compromised by groaning loudly and tilting forward, dipping his head down between his knees. It was dark and quiet down there and Yixing wondered plaintively if he could stay just like this forever, hunched over on a couch that certainly wasn’t his own and whine miserably through the truly offensive taste in his mouth. Because it was just starting to come back to him, why he felt this way, how he got here, and whose couch this was.

        “It’s aliiiiive!”

        Yixing winced at the volume, too loud and too sudden, reverberating from across the room, his head too thick with sleep and hangover fog to feel anything but self-pity.

        “Aw, hyung, come on, let me see your pretty face.”

        “Uuuunnnnnnnghhhhuh. Fuuuuuuuuuuuuugggggghhhh.”

        “Is that Chinese for ‘thank you for bringing me home safely after getting really drunk and kissing you and trying to choke you a little outside the bar where you paid for all the drinks and then throwing up on the sidewalk and then in the cab a little and then on your welcome mat which was a gift from your boyfriend who is currently out trying to find the kid I’m completely wacked out over?’ Sorry, you know my Mandarin is pretty weak.”

        Yixing hoped, in his alcohol-induced, sleepy stupor, that maybe his guilt-ridden brain had just assaulted him while he was still asleep. He hoped on a soul-deep level that he had not in reality just heard Chanyeol recounting what must have been a truly hideous, life-ruining, fan-hitting shit spectacular, if Chanyeol’s lilt were to be believed, his warm, slightly scratchy voice just a few feet away while Yixing remained curled up in a semi-fetal position on Chanyeol’s couch. Yixing willed the incomprehensible words away, grasped at the retreating fringes of sleep still wavering at the edge of him, but the words hung in the air like poised arrows all the same, waiting for him to wake up before piercing him good and deep. Still unwilling to move, Yixing heard a patient sigh and a couple of shuffled steps, then felt a heavy shift in weight on the cushion next to him, unsettling his delicate balance. He groaned again as both regret and nausea coursed through him anew.

        “I figured I’d rip the bandaid off on that one,” Chanyeol spoke, his voice a little softer than before. He reached over, a wide hand resting on Yixing’s shoulder. “Better to have it out in the open so we don’t have to tiptoe around it while we’re both hungover, huh hyung?”

        “Nnnnhhm.”

        “I’ll take that as resounding agreement. We wouldn’t want this to be awkward or anything.”

        Though Yixing felt sure that no good would come from it, he straightened up with some difficulty, turning his bleary eyes toward Chanyeol.

        “You look like you got hit by a truck, hyung.”

        “If it’s possible, I feel worse than I look.” Yixing grumbled the words out, his throat and tongue so dry they were garbled and oddly muted. Chanyeol chuckled a bit, patting Yixing lightly on the back.

        “Yeah. And I don’t think that’s the booze, is it.”

        Yixing’s brain registered that he probably ought to be kneeling at Chanyeol’s feet, begging for forgiveness or thanking him for the nurturing tone in his voice, but his body and mind were functioning on entirely separate planes, the latter just starting to piece his current situation together, while the former was spending all his energy not booting on Chanyeol’s coffee table. He managed a little shake of his head, closing his eyes as his stomach protested even that small movement.

        “Okay,” Chanyeol murmured. “Okay… So, maybe you should eat something? I made coffee, but it might be cold by now…” Yixing didn’t reply, unsure how to respond to Chanyeol’s slightly awkward hospitality now that his guilt and worry was beginning to solidify in his head.

        Chanyeol paused, then shifted a little toward Yixing, his hesitance melting away into a more familial calm.

        “Yeah, okay. How about you go get yourself together – get a shower, grab some clothes from my room. Just leave yours on the floor, I’ll burn them later.” Yixing let out an odd croaky laugh, opening his eyes to look down at himself, all bar-filthy and miserable. “I’ll make you something to eat and when you’re ready… we’ll talk.”

        Chanyeol guided a woozy Yixing off the couch by the elbow, steering him into his own bedroom. Yixing found himself manhandled in front of the open bathroom, his arms laden with Chanyeol’s worn Janet Jackson tee shirt and joggers that would surely pool around Yixing’s ankles, and with the huff and knock of the door closing behind him, he was alone again.

        Muscle memory led Yixing out of his clothes and into a hot shower while his brain shuddered awake. Chanyeol’s voice echoed in his head as steam lulled his aching body back to normalcy, focusing his vague, morning-after embarrassment. He remembered the bar, the drinking, the talking. He sifted through the boozy mess of memories and found something about Baekhyun and Chanyeol being on the rocks again. He made a note to ask about that, willing his short term memory to rev back up as he raked his hand through his soaked hair.

        Twelve minutes later, Yixing emerged from Chanyeol’s bedroom smelling of minty shampoo, his mouth set in a sheepish, resigned bend downward. He shuffled toward the kitchen, bare feet quiet across the wood floor, an inadequate apology looping in his head, but he paused as two low voices edged around into the hallway. He frowned, listening. He picked up only syllables, disconnected half-words, from Chanyeol’s throaty baritone and another, thinner voice. For a moment, the higher pitch clicked through the locks in Yixing’s body, singing through him like a plucked major chord. But the voice dipped and wove through the air without the boyish, fragile tone Yixing craved. Suppressing a dull throb behind his eyes, Yixing rounded the corner into the kitchen.

        “Hey guys.”

        “Morning, daddy.”

        Yixing startled for a moment, but the toying, kind look in Baekhyun’s eyes settled him. He dropped his head and chuckled.

        “Yeah,” he sighed, “I deserve that.” He looked up again, finding Chanyeol and Baekhyun leaning over the kitchen counter, heads tilted toward each other, three steaming mugs between them. Chanyeol straightened up and scooted the full mug of black coffee across the counter toward Yixing, nodding.

        “You don’t look so good, Xing.”

        “You should’ve seen him before the shower.”

        “Mm, nah,” Baekhyun replied, cocking his head as he appraised Yixing, who took the coffee gratefully. “I’d rather not pity the guy who kissed you a few hours ago.”

        “And ruined your lovely welcome mat, don’t forget!” Chanyeol chimed in.

        Yixing let the coffee serve as buffer while his friends had their fun, but the sharp, bitter taste reminded him of something.

        “Wait… aren’t… aren’t you guys…”

        Baekhyun and Chanyeol exchanged a look while Yixing lowered his mug back to the counter.

        “While you were busy drooling into my couch cushions at four in the morning, Baek and I… we talked.”

        “We’re all good now.” Baekhyun leaned over and head-butted one of Chanyeol’s angular shoulders, earning a humble grin, which Chanyeol hid behind his mug. Baekhyun looked back to Yixing, his now light silver hair flicking up, then settling again over his eyebrows, his eyes bright and conspiring underneath. “Try as you might, Xing Xing, your devious efforts to win Yeollie over have only brought us closer together. Which means we are united in our efforts to straighten you out… so to speak.”

        Chanyeol choked a bit through a sip of coffee, as Yixing tried to decipher what Baekhyun’s pun actually meant.

        “Well said!” Chanyeol cheered as he smiled at Baekhyun, who nodded confidently in response.

        Yixing eyed the pair, their bond brightening the kitchen more than the assault of the afternoon sun. His heart warmed for them, for their love, but a sour taste sullied the pleasant bite of coffee in his throat. He dropped his eyes to the counter.

        “Hyung,” Chanyeol’s voice was soft again, and Yixing despaired at his own selfishness.

        “I’m sorry.”

        “I know you are,” Chanyeol cut in before Yixing could cobble together any more inadequate, weak words. Yixing had never cared much for physical fondness with Chanyeol, tending to favor knowing nods to any sort of overt PDA when the need arose, but Chanyeol’s lanky, too tight embrace around his shoulders, engulfing him in stuffy, abrasive affection felt like home. He shuddered out an exhale, thankfully muffled a bit by Chanyeol’s sweatshirt. “I’m sorry, too. I’m sorry you’re hurting. I’m sorry this is so hard. And I’m sorry it’s gonna get worse.” Yixing dug his fingers into the thick material, holding on as Chanyeol’s words dismantled his composure.

        “I’m sorry…” he cried into Chanyeol’s chest. _I’m sorry for kissing you. I’m sorry for jeopardizing your relationship. I’m sorry for burdening you. I’m sorry I’m a mess. I’m sorry I can’t fix this._

_I’m sorry I met him. I’m sorry I loved him._

_I’m sorry I love him._

        Chanyeol held him tight, let him wither and break down in his arms. But the burn of it passed, and though a potent throb was knocking around Yixing’s head, making any thought that much more strained, he gathered himself, the guilt over his perversion of his friendship with Chanyeol practically erased.

        “So,” Chanyeol spoke low into Yixing’s ear. “You ready to talk about Jongdae now?”

        They broke apart, Yixing feeling more comforted than he deserved. Baekhyun, who had quietly busied himself pulling out leftovers from Chanyeol’s refrigerator, pushed a bowl of rice toward Yixing.

        “Yeollie told me everything you told him last night,” he started, handing Chanyeol his own bowl while he picked through an odd assortment of take-out cartons. Yixing half-smiled, admitting his gratitude to skip over the retelling, as he dipped into his breakfast. “He said you and Jongdae were… not together anymore.”

        “I told him about his dad. And the restaurant and the fight in the car,” Chanyeol supplied, never one for dancing around his point.

        “All the highlights,” Yixing noted dryly, savoring the bland taste of rice on his tongue, realizing he was famished.

        “Right,” Baekhyun continued, his voice a little unsure. “So, I was obviously worried about you, you know, with everything that happened last night and how shitty it’s been for you, and obviously you were crazy about him and now it’s just…” Baekhyun paused, looking to Chanyeol.

        “Hyung, you told me that Jongdae had… he’d hurt himself.” Yixing winced internally, hearing the confession echo in his memory. “He’d done it with you and he’d done it before.”

        “Not _with me_.” Yixing swallowed a lump of rice. “For me… because of me… I don’t know.”

        “But he’d done it before, right? It wasn’t… this isn’t a _new_ problem.”

        “I guess not. He said he’d felt that way since he was a kid…” The phrasing struck Yixing as it came out his mouth. “Which… he still was until yesterday.”

        “Right…” Baekhyun said again, gliding over Yixing’s warbled voice and picking up where Chanyeol left off. “He… he did it at the bar, right? And then recently, when he showed up at your place.” Yixing bit the inside of his cheek, unresponsive.

        “That’s what you told me, right, hyung?”

        Yixing looked up at Chanyeol’s gentle but insistent voice, finding his expression pinched in concern. Another wave of anguish and regret throbbed behind his eyes as he nodded.

        “Yeah. He… he said he needs to feel pain.”

        Baekhyun closed his eyes, sighing a little, but Chanyeol kept on.

        “So… he told you his dad had beaten him, which wasn’t true – ”

        “A lie, Chanyeol. It was a lie.”

        “Okay, he lied.” Chanyeol held Yixing’s eyes with his own; Yixing felt the grip of them, felt Chanyeol digging just a little. “He lied for years, to everyone, because you told me his family didn’t know, right? No one knows he’s the way he is but us, right?”

        “No, they have no idea. He blamed them, demonized them, and deceived me and I caught him in it and now it’s over. Nothing’s left.” The throb in Yixing’s head surged into a more urgent panging, anger swelling as he delved into his last conversation with Jongdae.

        “Xing…” Baekhyun’s kind voice broke through the heat Yixing’s frustration. “I’m just… I just want to understand, okay?” Yixing breathed through his nose, his teeth welded together. Chanyeol put a hand on Baekhyun’s back, shifting a little closer to him, the two of them a united front; the affection of it stung, though Yixing would never admit to being jealous of his friends. “I’m worried for you. But I’m also worried for Jongdae.”

        “We both are.”

        The words came out so smoothly, with a practiced tone and tenor, their duet well synchronized. They’d talked about how they would say these words. _They rehearsed this._

        “Jongdae hurt himself because he wanted to get your attention, right?” Chanyeol offered, but the sharp edge of annoyance and long-buried envy threaded through Yixing’s conscience too quickly for him to edit his response.

        “He hurt himself because he’s a masochist,” he spat out, loathing the word and all it had robbed from him. Baekhyun’s eyebrows peaked in worry, but Chanyeol, the more combative of the two, knew he’d pressed the right button.

        “That doesn’t make sense, hyung. That’s not how it works.” Yixing cursed himself for ever bringing this up. He should have kept it to himself. He could have. “He hurt himself because no one else would do it for him. He hurt himself out of desperation.”

        “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Neither of you know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

        “Why are you angry? If you really wanted to ignore all this and get past him, you’d be doing it, but instead you called me and promptly lost your shit. We’re just following your fucking lead, hyung.”

        “I want to be done. I don’t want this anymore.”

        “It doesn’t really matter now though, does it?” Baekhyun’s voice filtered through Yixing and Chanyeol’s arguing. “You may want to be over it, but you’re not. You still love him. And I think… I think he might be in trouble, Xing.”

        The self-protective, self-righteous armor Yixing had begun to construct disappeared on the breeze of Baekhyun’s quiet truth. He’d kill himself with work, dive into some ridiculous, meaningless fling, and attack his friends if it meant he could stop feeling this poison in his blood, the venom Jongdae left behind.

        “I called him.”

        Yixing’s eyes snapped up to Baekhyun, whose voice was as small as he could make it while still being heard, the shallow shadow of a whisper. There wasn’t a note of shame or fear that Yixing could hear, just quiet resolve. In reply, Yixing only managed a flicker of unbelief in his eyes.

        “He wouldn’t answer. Or… he didn’t, anyway. Not one of the twelve times I called.”

        “Hyung, he hurt himself because he needed you. Pain is part of it, but it’s… he _needs_ you. He needs _you_ more than he needs just pain. And if you rejected him, if he thinks you abandoned him after he told you who he was…”

        “No…” Yixing breathed out, Chanyeol’s barrage cutting through to the most vulnerable core of him.

        “We were up all night, Xing. Yeollie put you to bed and he called me and we’ve been up all night trying to figure out what to do. What if something happened? What if Jongdae – ”

        “Don’t.”

        “Hyung, you can’t ignore this. You care about him. He lied, he hurt you, but you still love him.”

        “Stop, _please_ …”

        “What if he’s in danger? You already know he’s capable of hiding this from everyone, and he’s probably really fucked up over what happened. Baek tried to get him on the phone all night and he got nothing.”

        Yixing dragged his hands over his face, blocking everything out, retreating. The kitchen was suddenly silent, save for Yixing’s ragged breathing into his palms. A full minute crept by, then another, Yixing’s ears echoing hollow and fuzzy, before Baekhyun’s voice bit through him again.

        “I went to the restaurant, Yixing. I drove over there just before I came here and they should be open now but… no one was there. It was empty and I’m worried… and I think you should be too.”

        Yixing choked in air like he’d been underwater, the rawness in his throat causing him to cough awkwardly.

        “ _What?_ ”

        Baekhyun fingered through his silvery hair, his mouth set in a thin line. Chanyeol leaned forward, his eyes closed, fingers resting on his temples.

        “We didn’t know what else to do, hyung.”

        Yixing pictured himself flinging his half empty bowl of rice across the counter, the clay skittering over the surface, tumbling to the floor and shattering, a satisfying, painfully shrill percussion quaking through three pairs of ears. He pictured how Chanyeol and Baekhyun must have spoken in the early morning hours, fiddly fingers poised over screens, their opinions concerning the innate brokenness of their poor fucked up friend spewing back and forth over text, the conversation probably already casual enough to warrant lapslock and emojis. He pictured the pavement outside the bar from the night before, hazy in his vision while he’d been doubled over, hands clutching his knees for dear life. He’d been so sick. He’d given in to his weakness and dredged up all his bullshit with Chanyeol, happy in-love _Yeollie,_ and he’d been so desperate to feel _not alone,_ to remember what he was like before all this had happened. And he couldn’t. Even now. He couldn’t picture himself before Jongdae.

        He’d been asleep for so long.

        Yixing turned around, hiding from his friends, ashamed of his misplaced, unfocused emotions, his childish attempts to deflect some of his pain on them. His anger gasped for its last breath, drowning silently in the ocean of simple, singular need inside him.

        “I’ve…” his voice creaked and shook. “I’ve been trying _so hard_ not to worry. I’ve been trying so _fucking hard_ not to even acknowledge him in my head.” He held onto the edge of the sink, the cold metal warming under his fingers. “I want to be done with him.”

        “I love you, hyung, but I really don’t believe you.”

        “Yeah,” Yixing muttered. His heart pumped cold, exhausted. Looking up from the sink, across the apartment to the couch, Yixing saw the lumpy indents his body left behind, still visible in the cushions. It felt like days since he’d slept.

        He turned back to Chanyeol and Baekhyun, the two of them still poised together behind the island, waiting.

        “I’m… it was his birthday.”

        Chanyeol smiled, his eyes so full and sad.

        “It was his birthday and I left him and I… I think I really messed up. I… I don’t think I’m… I don’t think I’m strong enough. I don’t think I can be what he needs. What if I’m not good enough for him? What if I hurt him too badly? What if he’s…. what…”

        “Hyung. You are a supremely fucked up individual and the best person I know. I’ve known you a long time and I swear to you, that kid _woke you up_.” Tears fell down Chanyeol’s cheeks as he spoke, his eyes unblinking. “You need him. And he needs you. Go. Find him.”


	19. Bonus Chapter: 17.5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As I'm working on the last few updates of this, I wanted to add a little bit of Baekyeol into the mix. Writing them for the last update was so fun so I thought I'd throw together this short bonus chapter. Contextually, this happens between chapters 17 and 18, when Yixing is passed out in Chanyeol's apartment. 
> 
> As always, thanks so much for reading; I hope you enjoy a little internal angsty Chanyeol!

    Yixing snored, but only when he'd been drinking. This wasn't news to Chanyeol, who'd been subjected to the full spectrum of nasal percussion of which passed-out-Yixing was capable several times before. As he sat back into the chair opposite his couch, Yixing's normally higher timbre sinking into some soggy baritone as he fell deeper asleep, Chanyeol remembered the first time he'd witnessed this side of his best friend. 

    They had been sixteen years old, mischievous and invincible together as they'd nicked a bottle of cheap liquor from Yixing's parents. Yixing had been nursing a doomed (and Chanyeol thought more than a little misguided considering Yixing's tendency toward ogling their history teacher, Mr. Lee Donghae) crush on a pretty upperclassman, so Chanyeol had yielded most of the booze to him. Two hours of word vomit about Yoona's "perfect bowed legs," and then a little actual vomit later, Chanyeol had felt Yixing fall asleep against him, his body slumping sideways, head settling peacefully in Chanyeol's lap. After only two minutes though, his rhythmic breathing crescendoed into a heaving, husky snore. Chanyeol remembered having to practically stuff his fist into his mouth to keep from laughing too loudly, the shake of his body threatening to wake his raucous friend.

    Now, Yixing's sawing gave Chanyeol permission to exhale, to relax a bit after an exceptionally tense evening. Apart from the offensive amount of sick Chanyeol had to clean up and the stink still coming off Yixing that made Chanyeol wonder if he ought to look up power washer rentals, there had been the revelatory conversation at the bar involving Yixing's slurred confession that the minor he'd been dating was a self-abusive masochist. And then he'd kissed him. And maybe choked him a little. Having Yixing knocked out on his couch, however laughably loud, was a major improvement. 

    And yet, now that his chaperoning duties were fulfilled, Chanyeol was freed up to worry about all sorts of long term problems. Like would they be allowed back in that bar after their antics? And would his neck bruise? It hadn't been for very long, but the feeling of Yixing's fingers constricting around his windpipe had been urgent, solid. A shiver flared up his back as he thought about finding twin marks on the sides of his throat. How would he explain that to Baekhyun?

    Baekhyun. His worries always turned back to Baekhyun.

    Chanyeol dug his phone out of his back pocket, the weight of it both familiar and foreboding in his hand. The screen lit up too bright, blinding Chanyeol for a few seconds. He angled it to the side, illuminating the empty, dark kitchen, noticing a distinct lack of notifications on the thumbprint-sullied glass. 

    Three days. It had been three days since he'd heard from him. 

    He'd felt self-righteous since their tiff, but relaying the details of their latest off-again confrontation to Yixing had drained him of that entirely. Now he just wanted it to be over.

    He looked down at his phone, his eyes adjusted to the pearly blue glow, pulling up his text messages. His heart sagged in his chest as he read the left side of the conversation.

     _yeolliiiiie_

     _i think i left my sweater there_

     _the teal one w the bunnies on it_

     _i know i do X)_

     _i thought i was coming over tonight? we were gonna order food and watch she was pretty!!!_

     _oh_

     _sure thats cool too_

     _you wanna go to that bar on 8th? i know its your favorite_

     _cant wait xx_

    Chanyeol read and reread the series, Yixing's staccato snoring receding to the background of his mind. He remembered the conversation, remembered being shorter than usual after a demanding day at his office. He'd needed to let off steam, ached to be surrounded by happy, social people that would revitalize his spirits. He knew he didn't have to play fair with Baekhyun all the time, so he hadn't felt bad overriding their plans to stay in. After so many years together, they knew where the line was, knew when to cross it, and how to find their way back. 

    But his timing had been off. Looking back at the snaking, unpredictable arc of their relationship, poor timing had been the culprit more often than not when they'd broken apart. 

     _oh_

    He should have known then, reading that familiar tell from Baekhyun, that he shouldn't press him. But he didn't like to give in when he was feeling pent up and tethered like he had been. If timing was the instigator for their cyclical breakups, competition was her accomplice. As Chanyeol had been itching for freedom and energy, Baekhyun had been on the cusp of another possessive mood, stubbornness anchoring both of them to their clashing neuroses. So they'd gone out, Baekhyun clingier than usual, and Chanyeol responding with flighty distraction. 

    It wouldn't have been a problem. They would have been irritated with each other, gone home in weighted silence, and probably fucked each other back to normal (they agreed sex was the best mediator, particularly of the kinda-drunk-and-impatient-Chanyeol-too-annoyed-to-bother-with-a-condom and kinda-drunk-and-whiny-Baekhyun-bent-over-the-kitchen-island variety). They would have been fine had that bimbo at the bar not misinterpreted Chanyeol's natural charisma for flirting and hung around their table smelling too strongly of some cheap fruity spray and even stronger of fruity liquor. They would have been fine if Chanyeol hadn't been accommodating instead of dismissive or even apathetic, even when he saw Baekhyun eyeing her with his fringe-hidden stare, opting to fiddle with his phone pointedly as Chanyeol fielded the girl's misdirected attention with too broad a smile.

    But they weren't fine, and Baekhyun had left without a word before midnight, cutting through the crowd while Chanyeol rolled his eyes at his back. He'd stayed for another hour, justifying his irritation with his boyfriend's self-indulgent drama among increasingly sloppy strangers, enjoying the girl's doting more than he probably should. But the night grew tiresome without the promise of Baekhyun's hand to hold as they walked home together, and he'd left feeling more tired than he had when he'd arrived. 

    Then… three days. Three tedious days of false starts and internalized excuses had only clarified his own shortcomings, particularly in the last few hours with Yixing. Behind the obvious what-the-fuck factor, there was undeniable devotion, a core yearning contained in Yixing's story that Chanyeol envied. 

    Yixing adored Jongdae. It had been obvious since he'd first seen them together in Yixing's apartment, the pair orbiting each other so intensely he'd felt a tiny sting of inadequacy even then. He'd spent his youth with Yixing, standing just a little taller, smiling a little wider. If he were honest, he'd habitually pitied Yixing for his introverted nature as long as he'd known him. It wasn't that Yixing was pathetic or disliked, quite the opposite. But social connection just never came as easy to him as it did Chanyeol. It required more of him. So when Chanyeol had observed the pair over breakfast at Yixing's apartment, he'd felt surprised, even affronted, that Yixing looked so... full. He'd been nervous and tense, but there was strength in his stature Chanyeol had never seen before. Whatever had held Yixing passive all the years Chanyeol had known him didn't exist with Jongdae. On their way home, Baekhyun had conspiratorially noted the same thing, musing about what sort of relationship Yixing had with the charming young blond, and while Chanyeol had agreed, he'd silently toiled over the flippancy he himself had always felt toward other people. Even Baekhyun.

    Chanyeol scrolled back through his texts, pausing to read bits here and there, remembering moments throughout his and Baekhyun’s perforated relationship. He smiled when he noticed the birth of now well-worn inside jokes, crass innuendos and more than one lewd image he thumbed quickly past. The first time he’d tentatively called Baekhyun  _jagi,_ which had become their most private, intimate code _._ But chopping up those happier snippets were the extended gaps, strings of texts halted for  days, weeks, months at a time, denoting another break. 

    The chronicled sequence of their lust and loss glowed up at him from his hands, baring equal parts embarrassment, desire, resentment, and aching affection. He scrolled further and further back, searching absently for evidence that he and Baekhyun had something, even if it was only for a moment, that might resemble the incurable bond Yixing and Jongdae were suffering from. To love like them, to be inextricably chained to each other, as essential as blood and water… that felt alien to him. He loved Baekhyun, but in comparison to the twisted, ugly devotion Yixing was so wounded by, he saw how shallow, self-serving he’d been with Baekhyun.

    A throaty grumble escaped Yixing's open mouth and he shifted around on the couch, tucking his knees up and hunching his shoulders. Chanyeol sighed as he watched him settle back into his dreams, the deep furrow in Yixing's brow suggesting a certain golden-haired boy who haunted him behind closed eyes.  The booze-soaked details of Yixing's story echoed in Chanyeol's mind, another wave of jealousy and remorse lapping at his heart, soaking through the veil that kept everyone at a safe distance. 

    He was up and shuffling quietly down the hall toward his front door before he could second guess himself, his gangly limbs knocking bluntly into the door frame. He swore quietly before closing the door as gently as he could manage, leaving Yixing to his silent recovery.  

    Sidestepping his ruined welcome mat, he brought his phone up to his lips.

    "Call Baekkie," he murmured, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth.


	20. Chapter 20

        Yixing compulsively thumbed the laundry-softened hem of his shirt. Well, not really his. He dropped his chin to examine Janet Jackson’s upside down visage, his brain too hot with adrenaline to allow any attention for how ridiculous he must look. In fact, he was grateful, having Chanyeol with him in this small, absurd way, wrapped around him as he sat frozen in his silent car. 

        He’d been so sure. Chanyeol and Baekhyun’s lovingly blunt urging had sent him bolting out of the apartment without changing his clothes or grabbing a coat. He’d sped through quiet, now familiar streets with fire in his gut, replacing his earlier nausea. The restaurant was as dark and foreboding as Baekhyun had described; Yixing barely slowed, the sight sending acrid urgency down his spine, pooling in his foot like lead, his car whipping around corners before skidding to a stop a hundred feet away from the Kim residence. Confronting reality now, terrified of what he’d find, Yixing hesitated. His keen imagination, enviable when it came to picturing all the most minute details of Jongdae, betrayed him now; a barrage of heinous visions, each gorier than the last, held him captive in his seat. 

        He looked up again, out his fogged windshield, to the little house up the street.

_         I don’t think I’m strong enough.  _

        The cooling leather of the driver’s seat pressed uncomfortably into Yixing’s skin, raising the hair on his bare arms. 

_         What if I’m not good enough for him? What if I hurt him too badly?  _

        Doubt clung to Yixing’s thoughts like sap, but there were also logistical issues to consider. He couldn’t very well bound up the walk, rap on the Kim’s door and demand to know where their teenage son was. His second skin of guilt hovered above a more urgent worry, his mind conjuring Kim Daeji’s open, sweet face morphing into justified disgust, he and his wife pushing him out the door with pointed, knobby fingers, shouting ugly words at him as Jongdae slipped irretrievably further away from him.

_         What if he’s in danger? _

        Emotional whiplash, compounded by the aching pain of his hangover, had Yixing whining into the silent car, the heels of his hands crushed against his closed eyes. 

        “Jongdae…  _ where are you? _ ” Yixing whispered, his voice oddly tinny in his ears.

        A shiver peaked at the base of his neck, fleeting awareness breaking through his turmoil. He dropped his hands an inch, his gaze partially cleared to peer up the street again. 

        Hunched inside a thick, brown sweater, Kim Daeji emerged from behind the far side of his house, making slow progress, his arms straining with the weight of a cumbersome bag of trash. Yixing's wide eyes following each careful step as Mr. Kim ambled across the weedy front walk, head bent low, shifting the bag ahead of him awkwardly. The angle of the yard tilted under Mr. Kim’s slow feet, sloping away toward a rusted trash can; perhaps it was wind or an unlucky rock in the path that did it, or maybe something invisible, internal, but without warning, the bag escaped Mr. Kim’s hands, its contents thunking on the ground and spilling out the mouth down the little hill. Empty bottles and crumpled cartons littered the yard, the winter breeze scooping up errant sheets of paper and depositing them across dull tufts of grass. Yixing watched, silent and still in his car, as Mr. Kim reached feebly for the refuse, his eyes falling from surprise to hurt, before his body folded away. His knees caved forward and he dropped, a small heap of a man settling into the tough dirt, surrounded by trash. 

        Anguish, flooding out from Mr. Kim’s burdened, broken frame, reverberated through Yixing’s bones. He’d been staving off that exact feeling, running from it in earnest as best he could, only to be engulfed by it now. Baekhyun and Chanyeol had tried to help him, he could have made this right, but he was too late. He couldn’t hide from it anymore, Jongdae was… 

_         Go. Find him.  _

        And as he had the night he’d met Jongdae, his boy losing blood across a grungy tiled floor, so fragile and so alone, Yixing exhaled, doubt and hesitance falling away to reveal only pure purpose, crystalline in his mind. He reached over to the passenger seat, his fingers a little stiff as he swiped his phone to life. Cold glass against his cheek, Yixing spoke clearly, enunciating every syllable as Mr. Kim remained immobile in the dirt. 

        “Yes, hello - do you currently have a patient named Kim Jongdae?” 

\--- --- ---

        The shiny stench of alcohol burned in Yixing’s nose as he stalked down the hallway, fluorescent bulbs buzzing like a restless crowd overhead. Gray plaques marked each identical doorway he passed, numbers in a plain, unembellished font escalating predictably toward the one currently resting on Yixing’s tongue. 

_         1015…  _

        He dodged a nurse so laden with clipboards that he could only see her eyes darting across the top page, the rest of her face hidden behind the tremulous stack. 

_         1017 _ …

        Through an open door, Yixing heard the static of a television, the jerking arc of a laugh track ng into the hallway. He was close now, his heartbeat erratic in his throat.

        1019…

        Yixing slowed as he took his last few steps, the door ahead of him cracked open a few foreboding inches. He paused outside, listening, though the urgent din of the hospital didn’t allow him any indication of what waited behind door 1021. He took a breath, forcing his fear out through his nose, and knocked. 


	21. Chapter 21

        He lay still under white sheets, his body turned away toward the window. The late afternoon sun filtered in through a translucent shade, rendering a muted, bluish contrast of shadow and light across the floor. Yixing’s breath rattled dryly in his throat as he took another small step inside, toeing the chasm, his untied laces tapping their plastic tracks across the tiles. But he didn’t stir then, nor when the door swung closed behind Yixing, its heavy, unforgiving mechanics settling back into place. It was quiet now, the room closed off and isolated; Yixing strained his ears for breathing, for the rhythmic cadence of sleep, but his own blood pounded too loud for such relief. 

        Another step, his eyes tracing the topography of him, searching. Legs, tucked up and angular under slim hips, narrow back draped in starched cotton, shoulders hunched and motionless. 

        And his neck. Oddly obscured by something half-illuminated. Another step, and the woven texture came into focus, the clinical efficiency of its edges. His hair, overgrown past the tops of his ears, dark roots just starting to bleed into dull gold, did little to hide the hashed abrasions peeking out from under the gauze. Unblinking, Yixing tried to make sense of it, the pair of bandages like sterile epaulets, hiding the skin at the base of Jongdae’s fragile neck, from jawline to collarbone. 

        He lay still under white sheets as Yixing reached out, his eyes willing his fingers to prove the brick red stain in the center of the gauze was some ghost of his guilt, a projection or neurotic punishment he could shake off. His hand trembled uncontrollably, hovering just above Jongdae’s stone-still frame.

        The door clicked and swung open, sudden noise from the hall jarring in Yixing’s ears. He yanked his hand back, stuffing it into his pocket, lint leftover from Chanyeol’s laundry collecting under his nails as he dug into the seam. 

        “Oh, excuse me, I didn’t know Mr. Kim had a visitor.”

        Yixing instinctively bowed toward the soft-spoken nurse and stepped away from the hospital bed, retreating toward the wall behind him. He bumped lightly into a some spindly thing, jerking around to right the IV stand before it toppled to the floor. The nurse stepped forward, a small “oh!” escaping her as he rested a hand lightly on Yixing’s shoulder. 

        “I’m sorry!” Yixing whispered, his voice a frantic self-reproach. But the nurse only smiled, her eyes soft and kind. She pulsed her fingertips slightly, guiding a jumpy Yixing away from the equipment to the foot of Jongdae’s bed. As she lowered her eyes to the clipboard in her hands, Yixing stole a glance sideways. Jongdae’s cheek, pale as ever, glowed in the low light. 

_         Little one.  _

        “Are you family?”

        Yixing quickly shifted back to the nurse, her eyes still scanning Jongdae’s charts.

        “I… a friend.” 

        “Mm,” she hummed, flicking another sweet smile up at Yixing before returning to her reading. “It’s kind of you to come. He’s medicated so he can rest now, but... I think patients recover faster when they have the right people around them.” Her eyes lifted again, her eyebrows a little peaked. “I’m sorry,” she tucked a stray hair behind her ear, a blush rising up her small, feminine features. “Sometimes I overshare.”

        Yixing couldn’t help offering a meager smile in return. She emitted joy, somehow, even within this dreary, tense atmosphere. He peeked over the edge of the clipboard, eying the shiny ID badge clipped to her front pocket, adorned with glittery heart stickers. 

        “Tiffany,” Yixing spoke the foreign name as a question and she nodded. 

        “That’s me. I’ve been Mr. Kim’s nurse since…” she consulted her watch, the baby pink silicone band complementing her maroon scrubs, “wow, it’s already four.” She dropped her wrist and pursed her lips, exhaling a sigh as she cast her eyes to Jongdae. “He was asleep when I came in this morning at five, and he’s been out most of the day. Hasn’t eaten or spoken much at all.” Yixing watched her face as she spoke, her expression a little tired, but still bright. “He made it through the first night alright, but we want to keep him here a bit longer to be on the safe side. With this sort of thing, we tend to play it by ear to be honest.” 

        Yixing swallowed, letting the silence fill him up.  _ He’s here. He’s safe. But from what? _

        “What happened?”

        The nurse’s eyes widened in question, then fluttered back to normal as she readjusted. 

        “My apologies.” She again consulted her chart as she adopted a more formal tone, her voice still quiet as Jongdae slept on. “Mr. Kim was admitted yesterday around six in the morning. His parents brought him in with multiple lacerations on both sides of his neck. He was unconscious when he arrived, possibly due to the blood loss.” Her voice remained even as she read the notes, Yixing’s heart pumping faster with each word. “His parents couldn’t tell us what had happened, but we were able to adequately treat his wounds.”

        “He cut his neck?” Yixing asked in a strained whisper. He looked again at the bandage visible under Jongdae’s ear, terrified of what horror he’d inflicted beneath.

        “Not… not exactly. As it was explained to me, the doctor thought the wounds might have been inflicted by a razor, but the cuts were too jagged.” Yixing’s head swam, his eyes blurring slightly, Jongdae’s still body drowning in his vision. “It doesn’t seem to have been a blade of any kind.” Yixing gripped the beige plastic of the footboard, leaning over the bed slightly, sudden tears threatening to fall on pristine sheets. “According to his chart, Mr. Kim engaged in self-harm…” her voice faltered; Yixing pivoted, hands vice-like on the bed frame, watching the nurse as she composed herself. “Mr. Kim engaged in self-harm by using his own nails to cut into his skin,” she inhaled sharply, her voice thin as she pressed on. “He clawed repeatedly with both hands around his neck. It is also possible that he self-asphyxiated, given the bruising that has appeared in the area since being admitted. This combined trauma caused him to lose consciousness, a short time after which his parents were able to bring him here. We’ve been keeping him as calm as possible while he recovers - the wounds required some stitches, and he’ll likely scar even with that - but while he’s physically fine, we are concerned about his psychological state, what would drive him to do this to himself. But really... the only person who can shed light on this is him.” 

        Yixing shattered. His heartbeat bucked and brayed wildly, his pupils dilating like camera apertures, a frayed, hacking grit scraping at his bones, but he fixed his body painfully, clambering for control. Each word of the nurse’s diligent report further suffocated his vision, the most vulnerable core of him gaping wide as his connection with Jongdae burnt up in a moment. His knuckles threatened to tear his skin with how tightly he held onto the hospital bed.

_         How… how could he do this? _

        His eyes flickered as he watched Jongdae sleep, the image of him fracturing in the dank abyss of his mind: collapsed, raking his hands up and down his throat, teeth bared and bleeding, reduced to a cornered, desperate animal. Yixing gagged, feeling the very atoms inside him revolting. 

        “Sir? I’m sorry… I know it’s a lot to stomach…” Tiffany’s voice sounded distant and hollow as Yixing scrambled to keep himself together. “But he’s… he’s here. And he’ll be okay.”

_         But he should never have been here at all.  _

_         He’s here because I abandoned him. He had no other options. I took everything from him and left him alone.  _

_         I almost killed him.  _

        A wracking sob caught on Yixing’s tongue, tearing into the roof of his mouth. He dropped his head, breathless.

_         I almost lost him.  _

        He felt a hand, small and simple, just at the back of his arm. 

        “He’s here,” her voice seeped into him as softly as her touch. “And you’re here.” 

        Yixing angled his face to her, tears streaming down his neck, the twin rivulets meeting in the dip between his clavicles. 

        “That’s not enough,” he gasped out, shaking. “I don’t know how to be enough.”

        She considered this, holding Yixing’s panicked stare with practiced ease, until her soft lips curved up as before, her warm smile shining through the blackness in Yixing’s eyes. 

        “I’m not sure any of us do. And yet… we find each other. And we hold on.” She peered over Yixing’s shoulder to Jongdae, who stirred sleepily, curling up into a whorl under the thin sheet. Her eyes creased further, and Yixing cherished seeing someone else be as enchanted by Jongdae as he was. “I think… I think we  _ become  _ enough when we give all of ourselves. When we have nothing to hide.” She dropped her hand from Yixing’s arm, reaching to the steel counter behind her for a tissue. “I see it a lot, actually. Accidents, illness… they put things into perspective for people. Everything becomes so immediate. And suddenly everything extra falls away… and whatever’s left… _ that’s _ what’s enough.”

        Yixing took the tissue from her delicate, outstretched hand as she drifted off. They stood in mutual, contemplative silence as Yixing collected himself. 

        “Thank you,” he offered, a little cowed. 

        “Of course,” she nodded. “Mr. Kim is still medicated, but he should be coming out of it soon. You’re welcome to stay with him here. If you need anything, please let me know. I’ll check back... “ she consulted her pink watch again, “in another hour or so.”

        “You… I mean…” 

        She smiled brightly, folding Yixing’s inadequate stammering away with a knowing nod. 

        “...Whatever I can do to help,” she assured him as she tipped her chin toward the open chair in the corner of the room. Yixing bowed low, watching her pull the door shut quietly behind her. 

        The sun had begun its descent into evening behind the canvas curtain. Yixing padded over to the other side of Jongdae’s bed, settling into the vinyl. He leaned forward elbow to thigh, peering down at Jongdae and examining every precious detail with abandon, ravenous for him. His honey hair, wavy and unstyled, covered his straight, dark eyebrows in a childish way. Sharp cheekbones led to acute lips, expressive even in sleep. Yixing marveled at how easy it was to sink back into this reverie, until his eyes alighted on the gauze again. 

        “I’m so sorry…” The words slipped out like a prayer, nearly inaudible in the shadowed corner of the room. “I’m so sorry this happened. I don’t know what I would’ve done if…” Yixing dropped his head into his hands, his voice clogged behind damp fingers, submitting to all the guilt and relief he’d been so careful to avoid. “I can’t lose you. I  _ do _ need you. I  _ need to love you _ . And I… I just don’t know what to do now...” 

        He heaved out a gasp of grief for himself, for Jongdae, for the lives they might have lived… But… he was here. They were both here, both wounded and broken and crazy.  

_         Maybe that is enough,  _ Yixing thought, a bud of hope growing so, so quietly inside him.

        He opened his eyes, blinking away the last of his tears to find Jongdae’s own red-rimmed, half-lidded ones peering up at him, shallow breath warming his anemic lips, skimming over his sunset-cast pillow. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot thank you all enough for encouraging me while I've been writing this. Coming back to it after about two months felt really daunting, and it was all the lovely, truly special comments on here that motivated me past that hesitation. You're all rockstars and I hope you'll bear with me a little longer.


	22. 22

        Yixing’s exhale stalled as he saw himself register in Jongdae’s bleary eyes, rays of recognition shimmering through remnant sleep.

        “Da - ” Jongdae’s groggy half-whisper broke off after just one syllable. His gaze, more pure and potent than Yixing deserved, flooded impossibly wide, then snuffed out behind clenched lids. He groaned, turning into his pillow, burying his face in hospital grade cotton. 

        Yixing paused, a nervous tremor reverberating in his temples. This proximity alone was enough to ignite his natural impulse to comfort Jongdae. He yearned to extend his hand, to run his nails up the curved spine, knead calming circles into the pale skin peeking out from under Jongdae’s worn crew neck. But at this close distance, he could see the dull sheen of surgical tape holding the bandages in place, a reminder that there was a distance his affection could not ford.

        He took a breath, selfless restraint and selfish doubt serving as twin shackles. But as he hesitated, Jongdae’s body contorted against the mattress, sleepy grumbling wrenching thin into plaintive cries. Yixing’s nervousness plummeted into terror at the sudden shift, each of Jongdae’s tormented sobs scraping and gouging Yixing further into fear.

_         I shouldn’t be here. I should have left him alone. I’m just hurting him all over again.   _

        Another wave of itching shame crested over Yixing’s earlier resolve hearing the choke and heave of Jongdae’s suffering. This was no relief for him, no welcome gesture of atonement that might encourage a timid reconciliation. This was an  _ invasion _ , his presence surely reversing whatever recovery Jongdae had managed, an uninvited reminder of the pain and shock of rejection. Sitting there, frozen and fatuous, Yixing had nothing to offer him at all. He yearned to apologize, to offer his fears and wounds as penance, bond through their shared guilt and regret and fear. But they were both alone, wandering in the dark, alien and isolated.

        Yixing closed his eyes and bent forward, retreating into the cold silence of himself. A tempting cloud of detachment stirred at the back of his mind, dormant since his father’s sudden death. How much easier would it be to fall into that blackness again, to drown himself in apathy. He remembered the fog of those few days after it happened, the initial panic muscled down by avoidance, the lurking devastation he hadn’t been strong enough to bear. He could do it again. He could deny the damage he’d done, flee into the fear-lined cell of his heart. 

_         We find each other. And we hold on. _

        Tiffany’s quiet, contemplative voice, clear and innocent as a hymn, hummed through Yixing like cool water.  

_         Hold on. _

_         Find him. And hold on.  _

        So he did. Fists pressed in at his hairline, elbows to knees, he held fast, hoping and waiting, as he had learned to do, for Jongdae’s lead. 

        Eventually, Jongdae’s keening slowing to a whimper, the tense peaks of his shoulder blades settling heavily under his thin shirt. He looked so small, Yixing thought, oddly fragile as he locked his elbows, pushing his body upright and letting his legs dangle over the side of the bed to face Yixing fully. He tucked his chin, so square and defiant even now, to his chest, avoiding Yixing’s eyes. 

        “Jongdae.”

        Bracing himself, Yixing breathed the name with caution. But instead of some wicked glare or a hiss of wounded refusal, Jongdae winced in response, turning away abruptly as if he’d been slapped. His hand came up to his mouth, crushing the sound of renewed tears behind those damaging, dangerous fingers, eyes still blatantly disconnected from Yixing’s.

        “Jongdae…?” Yixing edged forward in his seat.

        “Why - ” His voice a drippy mess behind his hand, Jongdae kept his distance, angling himself away from Yixing’s wary advance. “Why are you here?”

        Yixing blinked, his full bottom lip yielding to a weak, wordless stammer. 

        “Wh… I just… you’re  _ hurt _ ,” he fumbled, the answer too obvious, hating the cheapness of his voice against Jongdae’s labored sobs. “I had to…”

        “But that’s not… you don’t need to be h-here,” Jongdae coughed out, Yixing’s voice too weak to hold up. 

        “What? I - ”

        “You don’t want m-me. You told me that and I kn-know you’re not… I know you don’t…” Jongdae’s voice gulped through and hiccuped through tears, his hands furiously smearing circles into his reddened cheeks. “You don’t… you shouldn’t be here.”

        “Jongdae please…” Yixing pleaded. Jongdae snapped his head up, his body blocking up as if to fight.

        “I didn’t do this so you’d come back. I didn’t do this to  _ guilt  _ you back here!” Jongdae’s shredded voice echoed in the hollow air. His tears stopped all at once, his glassy, sore eyes lifting, finally, to find Yixing. 

        They breathed together, power and pressure shifting between them. Jongdae’s teeth were bared, a brazen fire lurking behind swollen eyelids.

        “I’m… I’m not here because I feel guilty,” Yixing spoke slowly, staring at Jongdae, willing him to understand. “I… I had to. I had to find you.” Jongdae’s nose was scrunched up, stubborn distrust curling his lips into a snarl. “You were right. You were right about me from the beginning. I have to… protect you,” he persisted. “I need you.”

        “But you don’t  _ want  _ that. You don’t want me like  _ this _ ,” Jongdae spat back, his eyes narrowed. Yixing resisted the urge to glance at the bandages, holding onto Jongdae’s harsh, combative gaze.

        “I did say that.” Yixing gritted his teeth together, testing the integrity of his molars. “I… I didn’t get it. Or I didn’t want to…”

        A cold, barking laugh, so unfamiliar in Jongdae’s soggy, strained voice made Yixing recoil.

        “You pity me,” Jongdae scoffed, dismissive. “I told you I - ”

        “I don’t. Please,” Yixing shifted forward again, practically lifting off his chair. “You scare the shit out of me, okay? And not just the… masochism,” he muscled out the word, pushing past Jongdae’s flared defense. “You changed me. Or… you… I don’t know...” Chanyeol’s words skittered over his tongue, filling in the gap. “You woke me up.” Jongdae’s sneer softened with confusion, prompting Yixing to continue. “I don’t pity you. And I don’t feel obligated. But the idea of you doing  _ this  _ to yourself, I just…” 

        He couldn’t help the drift of his eyes, falling from Jongdae’s face to his neck. Tears instantly fell fast over his cheeks, collecting at the corners of his mouth. He tasted salt, reminding him of the metallic burn of blood. 

        “What? Finish that sentence.”

        Yixing cleared his eyes, finding Jongdae staring at him.

        “I…” 

        “You don’t pity me, but…” Jongdae nodded as he echoed Yixing’s voice, his tone still strained from his crying jag. 

        “I just,” Yixing sniffed. “I can’t stand you suffering.” He let his head fall forward, closing his eyes again. But there, in the dark, bloomed the haunting memories of Jongdae, sprawled on the bar’s bathroom floor, crumpled against the wall of his apartment, broken and rejected on the sidewalk outside his family’s restaurant. “I hate it. And I hate that I did this to you.” 

        “You didn’t. I did this.”

        Yixing looked up again, the sheen on Jongdae’s cheeks drying fast.  

        “I know, but…”

        “No, you think you do. Believe me, I wish I could blame you for this. I wish I could say you caused this, but  _ fuck,  _ Yixing, this is  _ who I am.  _ This is how it’s always been.”

        Yixing tried to make sense of this, how this made things different, but his guilt, his pure need to protect Jongdae from harm and hurt still rooted inside him. 

        “But if I hadn’t…”

        “If you hadn’t dumped me? Is that where we’re going?” Jongdae’s eyebrows peaked, an incredulous, mocking laugh punctuating his dismissal. “Please, don’t bother. You did. You told me you were done and you left.”

        “But I made a mistake! I was just mad about you lying and I-”

        “This again?” Jongdae’s voice built as he stepped on Yixing’s words. “That wasn’t a  _ mistake _ , Yixing, you freaked out because it wasn’t a game anymore. It wasn’t a fucking kink anymore it was real. Like you said, I scare the shit out of you.”

        “No, it’s not like that,” Yixing blurted, his tentative hope for a reunion turning sour, his intentions buried under miscommunication and emotion. “I mean, yes… I did freak out. But-”

        “Stop!” 

        Yixing inhaled sharply, shocked by the shrill command. Jongdae stared wide, wet lashes sticking to his lids. 

        “Just stop. I can’t listen to this anymore.” Some of the urgency drained from his face as Jongdae spoke, the heaviness from before clouding over him again. “If I listen to you, if I let you explain and I let you comfort me and say all the shit I want to hear, I’m going to fucking believe you… and this will  _ never fucking end _ for me.” Jongdae’s combative posture contorted into defensive retreat, his eyes falling to stare at his own hands . “I know I’m not who you thought I was. I deceived you and I’m sorry.” He swallowed, his throat flexing and releasing uncomfortably as he picked at his nails. “But you’re not who I thought you were either.” 

        Tears welled in his eyes again. But he continued, almost to himself more than Yixing, voicing the brutal thoughts that had landed him here in the hospital, the steady feed of shame, regret, and bitter disappointment that had triggered his hands to adopt the same insistence, to grip and mar and crush.

        “I thought you were him, you know?” His voice broke, childish in its weakness. Yixing’s memory blinked back to their last conversation, the moment when Jongdae offered him the most tender, pure desire of his heart. 

_         He was my protector. He gave me comfort as often as he gave me pain. But the pain was part of it. The idea of giving someone else that power over me, trusting them to break me and put me back together… it’s all I’ve ever wanted. _

        “I thought you were...  _ him _ . The man I’ve been waiting for. But you’re not. I was... wrong. And I just don’t know if he’s even real. I don’t know if I’ll ever… I mean, how can I...” Jongdae craned his neck, twisting away from Yixing. He reached his right hand up, fingers curling into claws around the stained bandages at his throat. 

        Linoleum met Yixing’s knees with unforgiving force, though the blunt sting didn’t register. He knelt in front of Jongdae, his beggar's pose complete as he grasped for Jongdae’s hands with his own, forcing them away from his wounds. Jongdae gasped, shrinking away for a moment, skittish at the sudden, steady hold around his thin wrists. 

        “Don’t! Please-” Yixing pleaded, falling into a whisper. “Don’t… just…” Back concave, legs twisted under him, he gently guided their joined hands into Jongdae’s lap, bowing his head as he chanted low. “Just stay. Stay here.” He pressed Jongdae’s clasped fingers to his face, feeling each digit with his cheeks, his furrowed brow, mouthing his prayer with his lips pressed to Jongdae’s knuckles. “Stay here. Please…”

        “Yixing…”

        But he didn’t let go. He couldn’t, not now that he had him in his hands again. He inhaled the distant, spectered scent of Jongdae under the delicate skin of his wrists, the electric essence of him so faint under the cloying hospital room stench. 

        “Yixing.”

        “Please,” Yixing answered, breathing warmth into Jongdae’s dry, cold hands. “I know I don’t deserve it. I know I broke this. But please,  _ please _ , don’t push me away.” 

        “I can’t,” Jongdae whimpered, his arms still lax as Yixing lined brief kisses along the curve of his thumbs. “This is too hard...”

        “It’s not. We can do this. _ I can do this _ .” Yixing marked the words into Jongdae’s curled fingers, the heat of his mouth lingering between them like dew. 

        “Look at me.”

        Not sure if it was Jongdae’s hands or his own that were trembling, Yixing lingered a moment longer. Relying on their intimate code, he pressed his bottom lip to the cracked knuckles of Jongdae’s index finger, willing the kiss to speak the wordless ardor of his heart, then slowly raised his head. 

        “I believe you want to,” Jongdae’s eyes were heavy with tears again as he whispered. “I believe you. But… I’m not curable.” He cringed as the word cut into his tongue. “You want to make me better, and that’s not how this works.” 

        He retracted his fingers from Yixing’s, bringing his hands together at his chest, defensive and distinctly separate.  

        “Ask me.” 

        Yixing, still bent and broken at Jongdae’s feet, abandoned without Jongdae’s hands to anchor him, felt Jongdae reaching for the words he’d been holding back since he’d entered the room. Though the nurse’s clinical description had revealed the logistics of this horror, Yixing still tethered the question inside him, gripped it tightly like a bomb, willing to let it destroy him if it meant sparing Jongdae. 

        And yet Jongdae looked into his eyes with a strange assurance, some odd resolution that made Yixing’s stomach clench. He reached his quivering hands again toward his neck, imploring Yixing to let the words inflict whatever damage they might. Because really, his eyes declared, how much worse could it get?

        Yixing froze, watching as Jongdae’s nails snuck under the tape, pulling the adhesive away from inflamed, tormented skin.  

        “Jongdae, don’t…”

        But it was done. Jongdae let his hands fall to his sides, a crumpled wad of bloodied gauze in each fist. He shook with the force of his tears, his thin chest spasming with the broken rhythm of his sorrow. 

        Fury, potent and primal, hauled up from Yixing’s gut. His boy, his little one, sat weeping, bearing the crazed claw marks of a desperate animal. Hideous gashes ran up one side and down the other, framed by the blueprint of thin fingers inked in filthy brownish bruises around his throat, the ghost of a self-made noose. The evidence of Yixing’s own inadequacy, the burden of his failure, had been carved into Jongdae’s skin, sutured together with detached precision. It was so  _ ugly _ , brick red, yellowed gray diluting pale white. That ugliness, that pain should have been Yixing’s. 

        He couldn’t bear it. He launched himself off his chair, stumbling to the far wall with eyes closed. He braced himself on the steel counter, trying to remember how to breathe, but Jongdae’s keening ate away at him, his trauma still echoing, the reality of his suffering engrained in Yixing’s mind.

        “No… no…” He raked his hands through his hair, nails digging into his scalp, begging his mind to shut down like it had years ago, his body a shell left alone to mourn painlessly.

        Pressure settled cautiously on his shoulder blade, but Yixing couldn’t face him again. 

        “Yixing.”

        “No…”

        Jongdae’s fingers curled around the fabric, gripping Yixing’s borrowed tee shirt with a childish insistence. 

        “Ask me!” he cried, grabbing at Yixing’s shoulder. Yixing shrugged him off, ducked his head to hide away from the confrontation, but Jongdae wouldn’t let up. He yanked hard, forcing Yixing to turn and face him. The edge of the counter pressed flatly into Yixing’s tailbone as Jongdae crowded him. 

        “You look at me. You look at me and you ask me.”

        The final wall fractured and fell; Yixing felt heat on his tongue, the words notched in the bow of his lips. Jongdae’s manic expression, shaky and dark, drew it from him.

        His left hand shot forward, fingers forming a vice around Jongdae’s chin. 

        “Why?! Why did you do this?”

        Forcing his head back, Yixing could see every stitch and scar up close now, the brutality so much harder to understand knowing Jongdae had inflicted it himself. His right hand, motivated by curiosity, disgust, and some other, blacker thing, crept up Jongdae’s chest, his palm registering the frenetic pulse beneath. 

        “How could you do…  _ this?!” _

        Jongdae gasped sharply, a jagged, numbed pain radiating from his neck as Yixing’s fingers assaulting his tender wounds. 

        “How the fuck could you  _ do _ this?!” His left hand still exposing Jongdae’s neck, Yixing thumbed at the stitches with his right, pressed into the flexible trenches just under his jaw, feeling the dried blood flake under his skin. 

        Jongdae whimpered through the cage of Yixing’s fingers, reaching his own out to find Yixing’s chest, pawing at him with trembling hands. But instead of loosening his grip, Yixing locked in on Jongdae’s eyes, finding not terror there, not suffering, but  _ need _ . 

        “It wasn’t a punishment was it?” He leaned into Jongdae, almost lifting him up with the force of his grip. “It wasn’t… an escape. You wanted it. You just wanted to feel this again. You weren’t... trying to die.” Yixing breathed his epiphany from quivering lips, remembering every moment before now, every moment he’d misunderstood. “This… this is the only way you can stay alive.”

        Jongdae moaned, a fragile mix of pain and relief. Yixing felt him submit, his jaw relax into his hand, neck muscles arching just a little more. Everything gave into the bliss of his surrender, everything except his eyes, black and brown gasping for the air only Yixing could supply. 

        He had him, all the mangled, wild mess of him, and in that was the answer. 

        He let go, yielding, feeling Jongdae’s hands dig into him for balance. Both gasping for air, they fell into each other, Yixing barely able to hold them both up with Jongdae’s face buried in his chest. 

        They had cried enough; instead, they simply breathed, held together by heat and gravity. Yixing’s hands moved of their own accord, painting long, easy parallels over Jongdae’s back. With his arms folded up between them like a child’s, Jongdae quietly sighed in response, the sounds shaky but satisfied. Yixing’s heart bloomed with love, hearing that sweetness seeping into his chest, feeling the vibration of Jongdae’s quiet relief against him.

        Coming down from their catharsis, Jongdae shifted within his cocoon. Yixing looked down, finding sleepy eyes come into focus under a straight relaxed brow. Unable to help himself, Yixing smiled, seeing the acute pucker of Jongdae’s lips just before he spoke.

        “What do we do now?” 

        The question felt incomplete, as if the punctuation was still poised on Jongdae’s tongue. Yixing cocked his head slightly, then sighed, reading the missing word in Jongdae’s expectant expression, held back by the vestiges of fear. He felt his tired smile broaden. He would wait for it, earn back the name he’d been too afraid to accept a few short months ago. For now, he could be patient. For now, this was more than enough.

        “Well, little one, my days have sort of… blurred together, but… I think we might have a birthday to celebrate.” 

\--- --- --- 

        Jongdae pursed his lips and exhaled. The candle flame resisted, clinging to the far side of the wick, then flickered out all at once, leaving the apartment illuminated only by the vivid sunset streaming in from the balcony door. 

        “Happy birthday, little one.”

        Yixing’s voice rumbled in Jongdae’s ear, his lips poised in the shadow behind the helix. Jongdae smiled and extended his neck a little, encouraging Yixing to continue.

        “You feel older?” Yixing asked, his own smile pressed lightly against Jongdae’s lobe.

        “Mm…” Jongdae cooed, smelling the tendril of sharp smoke mix with Yixing’s own quiet scent. “Is twenty supposed to feel different?” 

        Yixing hummed a laugh in response, his hands shifting from Jongdae’s shoulders down over his chest, feeling a steady heartbeat under threadbare navy fabric. He lingered another moment just under Jongdae’s ear, enjoying the simple pleasure of closeness. 

        “Perhaps not,” he allowed, finally dotting a kiss in the tender hollow below Jongdae’s jaw. “What did you wish for?”

        Jongdae exhaled in a short sigh, the rhythm under Yixing’s fingers quickening. Gratified, Yixing proceeded, his lips exploring the angular terrain of Jongdae’s jaw, then sloping down his neck. He paused, feeling a small ridge under his tongue. He pulled back a fraction, focusing his eyes in the half light. 

        Scars like thin roots snaked up Jongdae’s neck, the odd, sinewy texture of them long since healed over. But Yixing didn’t see them. They were overgrown, ink stained by a garden of tattoos - lacy chrysanthemums hung heavy above showy orchid blossoms, tangled with hibiscus and forsythia, and roses, red as blood. The colors glowed brightly in Yixing’s eyes, even in the shadow of dusk. 

        Jongdae turned in Yixing’s arms, peering up with a soft, honey-sweet expression. 

        “I didn’t. I don’t have to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter in this story. 
> 
> I do have another bonus chapter, maybe two, that I plan on posting in the near future, but this is the end of Love Me Right. 
> 
> It's taken just about a year to write this, and I am grateful to you readers in a way I cannot even begin to express. As I was telling a certain Italian friend of mine the other day, I would not have finished this, not even attempted to continue after the first few chapters had it not been for the incredibly generous, thoughtful, sweet encouragement I received here. I owe you so much. Because this story is so, so special to me. 
> 
> Thank you for reading. Thank you for commenting. Thank you for sharing this with people and keeping me motivated. I hope I've done right by you with this conclusion.

**Author's Note:**

> My [tumblr](http://weirdhybrid.tumblr.com/), if you're so inclined.
> 
> Cross-posted on [AFF](http://www.asianfanfics.com/story/view/974794/love-me-right-romance--exo-chenlay-xingdae-laychen-xiulay).


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